


the sky is falling in

by det395



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Breathplay, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Murder, Cutting, Dark Will Graham, Eventual Smut, Except with a conscience still, Excessive murder of law enforcement, Fights, Filicide, First Time, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Mention of dog deaths, Minor Character Death, Poison, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Rough Sex, Sassy Will Graham, Scarification, Slow Burn, This is only as realistic as the show ok that's what I hide behind, Unhealthy Relationships, possible spoilers ////// major character death might apply to hannibal and/or will, will anyone believe me if i say it's going to be a happy ending anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 81,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25477270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/det395/pseuds/det395
Summary: Contradictions in Will's becoming. Negotiations of the future and the past and an attempt to balance before they fall from a much greater height than before.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 109
Kudos: 148





	1. Virginia, USA

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants any clarification on tags/warnings you can [send me an ask!](http://will-gayham.tumblr.com)

Alana and Margot’s mansion looms in the background. Massive but quiet. It’s time that weighs heavy; the before or the too-late. Maybe Will should sprint across the grass, those few seconds could save everything, or alternatively destroy all chances of tact, the only thing he has any hope for. It comes down to either fate or coincidence. He happens to hope it’s fate, assuming it's the thing that brought them together so many times before. That, or a shit ton of luck.

He doesn’t run. Deep down, he can feel Hannibal close to him. Closer than he has been in months.

-

Pages and pages of reports. Evidence vast but empty. Incidents varied but strikingly familiar. A stag haunts his dreams but it’s limping, its antlers cracked and broke, but strangely it only makes it more terrifying. A blip of chaos, controlled chaos, that Will struggles to deduce.

Will shouldn’t even be working on these cases. Not that Jack doesn’t trust him, or that he isn’t in the right mind for it. Well, those things might be true anyway. But the real reason Will shouldn’t be on this case is that it’s outside of his jurisdiction.

These aren’t homicides. Every single victim, and there’s been many, has come out of the attack alive. Few memories remain and many are good as dead in various states of consciousness and ability. The pain is enormous. Will can’t stand in crime scenes over impaled and sliced bodies to use his gift with paramedics rushing around him, and often he doesn’t arrive until later. He doesn’t need to. He can feel it all.

He’s recovered from the fall off the cliff, weeks in a hospital bed and months moving past him slower than usual. It drags down on him, _time._ His self-control running thin.

He can see it staring in every puddle of blood left at the crime scenes, every weapon on the examining table, the clean cuts and cleaner surroundings. Reminiscent of the past, of the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s all wrong. He _knows_ Hannibal. Death is the most beautiful thing of all, life fizzling to darkness, limp bodies for the taking, arranged perfectly, soul snatched away. Hannibal never left his victims alive. It’s Hannibal doing these crimes, and it’s all wrong. He’s all wrong.

Hannibal left Will alive, too. Maybe that was all wrong.

Waking up on the beach by the cliff felt painfully familiar. Enough life left in him to survive, but little more. A slice to the gut, bleeding out. Battle wounds, abandoned on the sand. Hannibal’s intentions are never so simple. Surgical precision then leaves placed like bandages. 

Does Hannibal believe in fate? All this time, Hannibal has been masterfully spinning his own fate, but when it comes to Will he seems to leave it for another power. Left for dead lest a miracle.

Rather, it seems he believes in Will most of all to garner the strength to stand up, pull back to life stronger, and come find him. 

Any sensible person would stop chasing after Hannibal. Will wishes he could relate to having _sense._ It would make life much easier.

It doesn’t feel like his choice anymore. Thus his occupations with fate. Something cracked open in him that night, something that’s stagnated but never left. It shows itself in his dreams until he wakes up too early, left with thoughts and urges that he still struggles to reconcile in any practical capacity. He doesn’t know how he’ll feel once he finds Hannibal again, but he knows he’ll spend his whole life aching for it if he doesn’t find him.

Hannibal is close, he can feel his presence but can’t grasp it. Half of his life is spent looking over his shoulder or speaking at the wall. How dearly he wishes to speak to him, make some sense of it all. It’s like a boulder in his chest cavity, pressing on his windpipe, giving him the urge to scream. The urge to pull closer. 

-

He can feel the resolution coming before it happens. Anticipation that gives him a glimpse of that _alive_ feeling he’s become so preoccupied with. He barely has any recollection of driving home, only an unmistakable urge to _get_ home.

It arrives in his own living room: a man. Impaled and restrained and leaking bright puddles of blood onto his own bed with Will’s fishing rods through his torso. Alive, and beautiful.

Wide eyes meet him. Unmistakable hope at the thought of being saved. He’s more alive than most. If Will gets him out of here alive, he may have a memory of Hannibal that could greatly assist their investigation. But Will doesn’t even consider it except for with amused regard. The man stills and a different kind of fear return to his eyes.

Is it Will’s expression? Does the stranger, after only a few seconds, see the thirst in Will’s eyes? The danger below the surface? It’s a powerful feeling, a gift fallen in his lap. A chance to reconcile.

It’s all wrong. Hannibal leaving people alive. So unsatisfactory, so unsuitable, edging on frustration and wanting more. Will should have killed all of them, completed the ritual, brought beauty to the world, taken their breaths with Hannibal. Of course, Hannibal’s been waiting for Will to do it. Work with him. Make him happy. He’s been frustrating Will on purpose, holding back the true beauty that these captures could have been, and Will aches for it. This is Hannibal’s design, and Will is the puppet.

No. Hannibal wants more for Will. He could have taken him with him, could have killed him, could have done anything, but he’s making Will prove himself. The fears that Will often garners at night in bouts of anxiety dissipate before his eyes. There’s another chance. And Will can’t bear to let this one pass by him, not again. There is nothing else.

He walks forward slowly, staring into the stranger's eyes and twists the fishing rod, delighting with intrigue at the scream in response. He can almost feel Hannibal’s breath on the back of his neck.

-

He looks through the trees around the property. He tries to step carefully but the crunch of leaves beneath his feet sounds deafening.

There was a note on his table. A splash of blood had reached it, one splattered drop. Will picked it up, leaving fingerprints surrounding his handwritten name.

For one moment, he had been with Hannibal again. Maybe not physically, but it was visceral enough to fill him with something he’s needed. And when it was over, he slipped away and Will fell into a fast depression, only a bleeding body left on his kitchen floor where Hannibal once stood. Gone so fast. Alone with his thoughts, enough to send him into the grasps of an anxiety attack of who he’s become.

Seeing _Will Graham_ written in cursive was another gift, another piece, the only thing in that moment that could have calmed him down from a colossal freak-out. He opened it slowly and carefully.

_I hope you have made me proud,_ it said. Condescending, but Will felt the pride of satisfaction nonetheless. He skimmed the rest of the letter. He understood quickly what Hannibal meant in garbled language about _promises_ and _unfinished business,_ the unnamed _her_. Another test for Will, one that was far too much to ask of him. 

He’s not ready. Not in the slightest. He leaves a bloody handprint on his door handle running out before he finds enough sense to clean up. 

Finally, _finally,_ Hannibal has given him a clue of where he is. They will meet again, hands bloodied past all beliefs. But Will is still fighting with the past-him, the one who will never fully leave, who doesn’t want to see his old friend die.

He walks through the trees, wondering if this is all a delusion. The ultimate punishment, searching without luck forever. He’d rather Hannibal kill him. He expects it could happen today, and he might even feel happy about it.

He hears the crunch of a hoof pressing into the ground.

Hannibal is standing tall with his back to Will, staring at the mansion. Still and relaxed. Will freezes on the spot and surprises himself when he feels anger pool into his stomach.

-

He has dreams of the night on the cliff almost every night. Each time, he’s standing on the cliff taken over by euphoria and thinking that they can’t possibly go on like this and by the time the slap of water renders his entire body rigid and sharp he’s thinking _I didn’t mean it, take me with you, we can do it._

He tries to swim but he’s not searching for air, he’s searching for the body he hadn’t meant to let go of, desperately, feeling his lungs scream and his skin prickling with a thousand tiny cuts. His lungs are running out of air and his brain is fogging over and black fills his vision from the outside in when something unbelievably strong lifts him past the current.

He can remember the points of rocks in his back and Hannibal leaning into his ear to whisper, "My hope for you will never die." He stood and walked away and Will lost his fight to the blackness one more time.

-

“Hello, Will.”

Will’s mouth opens but nothing comes out so he clenches his teeth together instead. He walks in a wide berth, through the trees, staying a safe fifteen feet away. Though safe is rather relative right now. Slowly, Hannibal turns around. 

He looks the same, like not a day has passed since the night on the cliff. He stands straight and no injuries are visible. A clear jumpsuit covers his clothes.

Hannibal stares at Will thoughtfully and Will’s knees shake and nearly buckle at the sight. He’s rigid and unreadable until Will swears he can see a slight glimmer in his eyes.

He almost believes he can read what is happening in Hannibal’s head but it’s a dangerous game to hope, it will hurt like hell to fall from such a height. This feels altogether completely surreal.

“How is Mr. Schrover?”

Will holds his breath. Though Hannibal will only be happy at the news, saying it out loud, that Will killed a man, a rather innocent man this time, with no other motive than the need to feel Hannibal’s presence, might be too much truth to process right now. It might destroy him and that can’t happen when he’s finally, _finally_ found Hannibal again.

The spark that comes alight in his chest is indescribable. The more he watches Hannibal slowly running his eyes over Will’s face, the more he feels like he hasn’t been delusional this whole time. He finally breathes out.

Will thinks he can see Hannibal smile slightly.

“Good,” Hannibal says. “How was it?” 

Nearly imperceptibly, Will nod. He worries it will blend in with his trembling but Hannibal nods once back.

“I am relieved to see you again. I have been thinking about this moment for a long while now, and your absence would have been more than disappointing. Although I am still unsure of what conclusions you yourself have drawn after our last night. Are you here for Alana or are you here for me?”

“I’m here for Alana,” Will says, slow and unsure.

Hannibal clicks his tongue. “I fear you might be misunderstanding my question. Of course, you’re here because of what I plan to do to Mrs. Bloom, but if you were here _for_ Alana, you would have notified the FBI. Had they swarmed into the parking lot there, I would have little chance. You could have had me caught, but instead, you came here for me, just as I thought you would _._ ”

“You might have been caught, but you would never stop,” Will says through gritted teeth.

“Stop what, exactly?”

Will clenches his jaw and doesn’t speak. The anger sparks in his chest like aftershocks of his recent kill. He can almost convince himself he has power here.

“We are on the same page here, I only wish to hear you say it. It is control and circumstance that worries you, isn’t it? Difficult to fight something so elusive as wonderment, like trying to catch raindrops, they may stick to you but they break, splatter each time, cover you but never go as far as to drown you. There is unfinished business in your mind, the need to fill the teacup with something you can see and form and keep. The feeble attempts to glue it back together lose the water, you need something certain and permanent.”

“A difficult feat,” Will mutters, chuckling slightly. It’s the absurdity of it all that makes him bemused, that such a monologue feels so familiar, Hannibal’s voice consistently grounding and levelled.

“Though not impossible, you now admit? Perhaps, after so much breakage it is best just to buy a new teacup.” 

“Is this your convoluted way of telling me we should see other people?” He laughs high-pitched and dry.

“Could be. Alternatively, a new teacup could signify a restart, a change in situation, a replacement of better quality and taste.”

Will wrings his hands together. Everything Hannibal has ever said to him begins to come together and make sense, as vague and metaphorical as it is. A misunderstanding of this magnitude would mean they were never really on the same page, and that will be the end. 

But Will can feel that the end is not here yet. He can feel how Hannibal feels, it can’t be a lie. He looks past Hannibal and at the house and wonders where exactly he will draw the line today. The feeling snakes up past his throat and fills his mouth with the taste of blood.

“Do you plan to fight me?” Hannibal asks. Even without a change in tone or expression, Will can sense the joke. 

He snorts dryly then walks slowly in a circle, holding out his arms, then he raises his eyebrows. “I am not armed. Not even with a cliff-edge.”

“I recall your preferred method being your bare hands.”

“Not enough to kill you.”

  
  
“No? I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Hannibal says. It’s remarkable how his face doesn’t change, but Will sees something there. It may all be in his head, pushed too far into insanity. Hannibal may not be really here. But the shadows along the hard lines of his face say otherwise. 

“What are you going to do, Will? How will you stop me now?”

Will forces one foot to go in front of the other. It feels mechanical, as if there really are screws in his ankle that need to be oiled. He takes another step, slow and less sure than he had hoped. He feels his eyebrows screw up on his forehead, surely showing the lines that have grown deeper over time.

The slower he walks, the better it feels. Time to process. _Before you and after you._ But now there is another penultimate moment in the mix. Before this moment and after, less a stark difference and more a gradient of change until the _us_ finally loses its plausible deniability, if there can be said to have any left.

Will catches his ankle on uneven ground and nearly falls, but straightens up quickly. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, this short trek. It’s only the finish line, though, the actual marathon has felt endless, and all he needs to do is push himself one last time _if_ he even wants to cross the finish line. 

He walks closer until Hannibal’s face is there in all of its clarity. When the front of their jackets brush together, he gasps and freezes. He’s completely stiff, every muscle taut. He hadn’t realized just how close he came. The physical sensation is yet another intrusive reminder of this reality, of Hannibal looking down at him with piercing, expectant eyes.

Will thinks he’ll never be able to come unstuck but the decision has already been made, over the agony of the years apart, the _ache_ that he’s hoped to soothe so many times. Their chances become more and more narrow and he’s sick of time looming over him. 

“What are you going to do, Will?” Hannibal asks. It sounds like instructions.

Will clears his throat and says, “I’m asking.” 

It feels pathetic to say. He considers something more drastic, something that might actually manage to convince Hannibal he’s worth it to leave with.

Then again, if there’s any way to successfully and independently lead Hannibal away from Alana, it’s to dangle the worm in front of Hannibal. And Will has proven to be a delectable worm, anyone could see that, even if his allure is how he reacts to falling into the trap of manipulation and destruction. The victims make Hannibal’s infatuation clear enough.

“Come with me instead,” Will says. He takes a step back.

“Oh, this is an ultimatum then, is it?” 

Will can’t bring himself to nod. It’s the only card he has, and he should be using what defence he has. The defence he thinks he has, he reminds himself. He can’t forget that Hannibal abandoned him, there’s no telling if the power of Will’s rejection still stands strong.

Then, Hannibal nods and Will furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“My choice is to go with you, Will.”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion. He had anticipated him to make it difficult. Hannibal begins walking toward Will at such a fast speed that Will instinctively takes a step back and bumps into a tree. Hannibal stops in front of him, slightly too close for comfort, and Will presses into the tree, pulling his arms behind his back.

He doesn’t feel Hannibal’s anger, and he’s sure he would sense it from a mile away. What he senses feels worse right now, it’s a million barriers, Hannibal holding something down until Will can no longer see. 

He looks at Hannibal’s mouth, a vessel of consumption and deception and power, that has already taken much of Will. He has a death wish, doesn’t he? 

“Were you preparing a negotiation?” Hannibal asks.

“No.”

“No?”  
  


Will feels his jaw tremble as he speaks. “Just don’t kill Alana right now.”

Hannibal’s eyes gleam immediately. A smile without moving his mouth. He watches Will as if he’s looking through him, waiting.

He wants to claw down the barriers Hannibal has with his bare hands. He resents the sure way Hannibal holds himself, even now, when Will is struggling to contain his trembling limbs and the fire in his chest. After so long he expected more. He almost wants to turn and walk away, see what will happen, if Hannibal will call his name again. 

For once, Hannibal’s silence is unbreakable. It seems they might stand here for hours waiting if Will doesn’t speak.

He clenches his jaw, shaking his head and looking into the distance so he can speak without emotion raising. “It’s not like I’m proposing a fucking business transaction. _You_ wanted a… partnership.”

Hannibal raises a hand and Will flinches, but it settles on his cheek and gently runs his thumb over where Will’s jaw juts out in tension. When Will doesn’t relax, Hannibal moves to touch the raised scar instead. His skin burns with sensitivity where he’s touched.

“Even partnership sounds far too strict and ambiguous. You know what I want for the both of us, for I have already shown you.”

“Oh, do I?” Will laughs cruelly and shakes his head. “You left me for dead.”

“I left you to survive.”

“To suffer,” Will corrects.

“To suffer is to feel the world.”  
  


“You didn’t talk to me for _months,_ ” Will growls. He clenches his fists together and wonders what he would be capable of if he had brought a knife with him.

“I talked to you plenty.”

Will grinds his teeth together and finally slips out sideways, away from Hannibal so he no longer feels trapped. “You could have just come to me, left a letter, a _phone call_.”

“There’s a beauty in fighting for a sweeter release, in proving trust and devotion indescribable through words in actions instead, necessary even.”

“ _Beauty,_ oh fuck you.” Will spats. “What have you proven to me?”

Will catches the tension that pulls Hannibal’s lip down slightly, the fire in his eye, and he doesn’t know if it’s the insinuation that he hasn’t controlled Will’s emotions to the fullest, or if it’s as meagre as finding Will’s curse rude.

“How would you have me further prove my trust and devotion to you?” Hannibal asks. 

Will lifts his arms in a shrug and drops them against his side. His body betrays him as his eyes burn with frustrated tears.

“We felt the same pain apart, I know you could feel it. Words were insufficient,” Hannibal says.

And yet again, with so few words, Will begins to believe again, paranoia dissolving. The barrier slips slightly.

“Words would have been nice, though,” Will says, softly.

“I will give you all my words, from this day forward.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Will says sarcastically. He rubs his temple, feeling the sudden sting of a headache approaching.

“Are you not feeling well?”

“I am feeling overwhelmed.”

“Understandable. There is a lot to process. I imagine you are coming down from the rush of ending Mr. Schrover. But I am here now. I needed to ground myself before I could support you fully. I assure you, life begins now.” Hannibal’s mask drops slightly with the softening of his eyes, a raise of his eyebrows.

Will gestures to the mansion in front of them. “You’re giving up your promise that easily?”

“Everything is in your control. If you hadn’t shown up, many would have lost their lives. If you had called the FBI, I would return to incarceration. Of course, this is the choice I had hoped for.”

“Not much of a choice,” Will mutters.

“No. Your desires must forefront our decisions alongside mine to sustain an equal… partnership, and to not limit us with the paranoia of deception and revenge. It will take time.”

Will feels annoyed that Hannibal would dare to mention them working through what he himself has caused. It feels like an insult. Nonetheless, he hopes the feeling of Hannibal’s power dripping away is real and not a delusion he’s made in his head. He allows himself a smidge of hope for the life he lets himself daydream more and more.

“Well? What now?” Will raises his eyebrows.

Hannibal walks forward and guides him with a gentle hand on his back. Will feels that gentle touch with a greater prickle than he ever has before.

-

They drive in a sleek black car with tinted windows. It’s strange to be next to Hannibal again, disconcertingly comfortable already. They don’t speak. Will massages his temples and stews in his tension. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight. Not that it comes easy ever.

They arrive at a hotel that Will regards as overly luxurious. He doesn’t bother to conceal his apathy. It gives him a hint of satisfaction to deny Hannibal his recognition. He finds himself sweating at the thought of walking into a room with only one bed, but breathes easier when he finds separate bedrooms. One with a closet of fine pressed clothing that looks to be his size. He runs his hands over them, imagining Hannibal creating this space for him. He should have had the foresight to grab his own luggage, the clothes on his back are the only comfortable attire he has left. He looks down and for the first time notices the splatters of blood across his sweatshirt. He leaves it on.

He sits on the bed and takes note of things. His car is abandoned on a road close to Alana and Margot’s property. There is a mutilated body in his kitchen. A note from Hannibal still sitting on his desk. All of his belongings abandoned.

Jack has taken to communicating with him every day so it won’t take long to go looking for Will personally. What will he think? Will wasn’t careful about avoiding evidence. He wanted to leave evidence, leave no question of his actions. Hiding himself has been the most exhausting feat and he’s had many long years of it.

Jack will think the best of him nonetheless. He already has, allowing him back to the FBI, with lax expectations and more warmth than usual. Warmth that he doesn’t deserve. Jack assumes going over the cliff proved Will’s devotion to Jack, but it was the opposite. He gave his life to Hannibal in that moment, an escape for them both.

Jack will read the threat toward Alana between the lines of the letter. He will imagine Will’s desperation and conflict, a hero's story. He will find Will’s vehicle and picture the confrontation. The attempt to save his old friend. He will assume Will has been kidnapped or sacrificed, yet again, for Alana’s sake. And he couldn’t be more wrong.

Idly, Will wonders if this was the intention all along. He wonders how much of their plan is predetermined. Will just barely escaping the confines of the FBI's most-wanted list. Luxurious apartments and seaside homes awaiting across the world. Prey pinned down. Perhaps there is an itinerary for each day to come. 

He wonders what Hannibal expects of him. He thinks of Mr. Schrover. He almost wishes he hadn’t been told a name, but Will couldn’t have dehumanized the man if he wanted to. He felt every feeling he had. And he wasn’t a perfect man inside, but a far cry from the men Will has killed. He did it recklessly and without thought all to chase the high of a feeling from before.

If he gives up all of his virtues he’s not sure who will be left in his place. He doesn’t know if it’s already too late. Here he is, running away with a serial killer. And that decision was not reckless nor without thought.

His head pounds further. If Hannibal saws off his head and dines on his brain tonight he surely deserves it. He came here of his own volition. 

When Hannibal walks in his room it’s to find Will with his head in his hands. Will looks up to see two tablets held out in his palm and a glass of water.

“Trying to drug me, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks.

“No,” Hannibal replies simply. He could at least banter back, Will thinks, picking up the ibuprofens and washing them down quickly.

Hannibal’s hand reaches for his cheek and Will jerks back quickly. Hannibal drops his hand and he’s almost disappointed that Hannibal didn’t grab him anyway. He hates the pain that immediately follows it, the knowledge of Hannibal’s dissatisfaction.

“I hope soon you will understand the reason for our time apart soon.”

“I know. I know the messages you wanted to send to me with every victim, I know you wanted me to hurt, I know you wanted me to find you and prove my dedication after leaving you in jail for three years.” Will says it with bitter exasperation.

“I meant the time I needed to recover and get our plans in order. Well. I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive again, considering that my actions clearly pushed too hard.”

He feels almost guilty for not considering how long the bullet wound would have left Hannibal indisposed. Not to mention the falling off a cliff part of that whole ordeal. Hannibal seems unbreakable sometimes.

“Maybe later,” he grumbles anyway. Hannibal’s eyes pierce him from where he stands above Will. He wonders how far he can push before Hannibal pulls a handsaw to his head, a knife to his gut. He doesn’t tense for the attack because he knows it won’t come right now.

“I must begin dinner. I hope you will join me.” Hannibal glances at the row of nice clothes in the closet and walks out of the room.

Will stares at the ceiling for a while and thinks over the events of the day, cementing them in his mind before his thoughts begin to betray him with delusions. He’s slow to rise when his name is called. It gives him the strange sensation that he’s a teenager being called to dinner by his father and he quickly pushes that thought out of his mind. 

He looks at the closet and snorts before walking out in his blood-splattered sweater and cheap slacks. If Hannibal thinks he can dress Will up like a doll he’s sorely mistaken.

Hannibal does look him up and down as he arrives and Will smiles dryly at Hannibal’s exasperation. He’s in a full, tailored suit, standing behind the chair at the head of the table. He sits when Will does. 

He isn’t prepared for the tender texture of the meat and how much he missed it. He closes his eyes for a moment and wonders which victim this is. The list of names runs through his mind. 

“Let me guess,” Will says.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows slightly. He still hasn’t taken a bite. He is only observing.

Will pretends to think for a moment, raising his eyebrows. “We are eating Sandra Rose.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Gut feeling,” Will says.

“Well, very good instincts you have. How is Sandra by the way?”

“Comatose.”

“A shame. To be stuck in between, incomplete. I do pity her, along with the others.”

“Did you expect me to finish them off?” Will asks.

“I may have toyed with the idea for pleasure, but I did not look forward to your jailbreak, so, no.” Hannibal finally lifts a bite to his mouth and chews slowly. He looks up at Will again as he swallows. “I had only expected you to ache to.”

At the thought, Will feels the said ache, deep in his gut. Frustration with the sad, wheezing lives left behind. It was all wrong. He might have described it as ugly, if he hadn’t known Hannibal’s restraint and anguish behind each piece. It made him ache, that’s for sure.

“I cannot go on without you,” Hannibal says in a voice so absurdly casual for the sentence.

Will lifts the wine glass to his mouth to hide his face, at least for the moment, while he tries not to show emotion.

Bedelia _might_ have been toying with him when she claimed to know Hannibal’s feelings about him. Nonetheless, there was no denying what clicked into place once Will genuinely considered the idea. Slaying the Red Dragon felt like a consummation on its own, but Will knows if a _real_ consummation happens one day it will feel a different kind of vulnerability. One he can’t imagine on any practical level. Of course, it doesn’t have to happen. Hannibal will not force himself onto Will. He may only persuade. And he _is_ persuasive. 

“What are you thinking?” Hannibal asks. Will hasn’t lowered the wine glass, he holds it still in front of his nose, though he knows the flush to his cheeks is visible still. Hannibal can probably smell it. Can probably sense the abstract daydreams that have slipped into Will’s consciousness with increasing frequency and clarity.

He wonders what would happen if he left right now. He may find how literally Hannibal means his words. He may be trying to flatter Will. Or his infatuation may be real, and darkness would surely follow Will wherever he went. Alternatively, if Hannibal allowed Will to leave, Will would be forced to return to ordinary life where he can no longer survive. As tempting as it is to play with the one thing he knows of his power over Hannibal, he’d rather see what happens if he stays.

He realizes the silence is dragging between them and he doesn’t have an answer. The smile widens on Hannibal’s face and he chews languidly. Will refuses to consider the idea that Hannibal might know what he’s thinking about.

He decides to refuse to answer altogether and digs into his meal instead. He slouches over the table, a certain lethargy washing over him and making him forget manners. Not that he wants to show Hannibal any manners. He’s still frustrated with him, after all. Though he feels the grip of resentment sliding away for fondness and intrigue.

Earlier, twisting that fishing rod, he felt alive for the first time in months. In this moment, he feels content for the first time in an even longer span. It surprises him how much the relaxation washes over him, with Hannibal’s watchful eyes rarely leaving his face.

He reckons the feeling will stick around for a while. He isn’t prepared to let it go.

“When are we leaving?” he asks.

“A week.”

Will nods slowly. The FBI will waste their time tracking any transportation they may have taken. Although, without the success of finding them means of escape will be monitored more closely.

“We will drive to Canada. I have a contact,” Hannibal says in response to the question Will never voiced aloud.

“You have a lot of friends who like you enough to ignore the FBI’s number one most wanted label on your back?” Will asks between chewing.

“Some,” Hannibal says, his face betraying nothing.

Will doesn’t want to admit that Hannibal’s months of absence was necessary to have these pathways to their goals. He knows he would be a panicking mess without his composure. Nonetheless, it doesn’t take away from the nights spent alone, dreaming and wondering and aching with more pain than he would have with a hundred knives in his torso. He grips his knife tightly as he cuts the meat.

-

He ought to go to his room, but something keeps him rooted to the armchair in the corner of the living room. Hannibal is sitting still on the couch across from him, eyes closed and head tilted back, looking to be in complete concentration. Will wonders what would happen if he threw something at him right now. He doesn’t have the guts to test it.

He would like Hannibal’s attention, though. He’s finally back, for God’s sake. There’s undeniably much left unsaid between them. Not that Hannibal is a big fan of words anymore. Apparently he’s too good for the English language. Will thinks he might prefer the metaphorical monologues and pretentious think pieces over this silence.

The overhead lighting reflects off of Hannibal’s cheekbones and leaves his eyes dark. It’s a striking view, to anyone. Though most might not recognize it as intimidating, it unmistakably is. Everything about how he is built is domineering, though his actions sometimes contradict it. 

It is a view he wants to keep his eyes on. He finds himself confused again with the line between friendship and romance. Romance never played a large part in his life, other special interests taking precedent, unless it fell in his lap of course. Now, suddenly, he wonders what romance even _means._ If he’s ever truly experienced this widely accepted concept, if conventions even begin to describe what it could be.

_For someone like me, or Hannibal,_ he thinks. God, he’s turning into a narcissist, too. He still can’t deny the strange euphoria he gains from such violence, the odd running of his mind. It suddenly feels like Bedelia’s words were chosen specifically for him. The _ache_ follows him. And he yearns to relieve it. Love and passion is different for him.

There’s no denying the erotic thoughts that come to him in relation to Hannibal. They don’t have a sexual relationship, though. These feelings are attached to other processes. Violence, in particular. His brain has an undeniably intense reaction to death and he’s sure Hannibal has something to say about the connection between sex and death. He knows he isn’t the first to make such a connection in his brain. Leftover is the question of whether a sexual relationship with Hannibal would soothe another ache, or be merely a strange line to cross in reality. Or worse.

He can’t exactly imagine it in a non-violent form of intimacy. Even soft, stroking touches would have the air of danger coming from Hannibal. Maybe even more so than choking touches. Hannibal is far from conventional and Will can anticipate that danger from a mile away.

Danger to the state of his already aching chest, to surpass another vulnerability, fall deeper. 

He isn’t going to deny what is so obvious in his own mind, he must accept his sexual fluidity even if he refuses to act on it, as he has every right to do so. 

It isn’t as simple as that, though. His feelings aren’t caused by a death wish. There’s a morbid curiosity along with it. There’s a power in his awareness of Hannibal’s feelings. In whatever strange feelings constitute love for Hannibal. For the stares he’s begun to notice more, and the pointed look when Will does something Hannibal likes. He doubts he’s the most handsome person Hannibal has pursued, but clearly _something_ captures Hannibal’s attention.

Perhaps it is the way to make Hannibal fall apart. Fall apart in a way that has less chance of ending up in Will’s death. Will isn’t sure he would ever have the confidence to go so far as to sleep with Hannibal but the thought is suddenly intriguing and surely he can use Hannibal’s captivation to his advantage. He _has_ gained the affection of a very powerful man with similar passions to him; that comes with power. 

It’s difficult to imagine it on a practical level, even if the desire solidifies in his brain. Part of him doesn’t want to prove the tabloids right. _Murder husbands._ The public has no right to see who they are to each other. He doesn’t want anyone else to see, or even think of them. He would like to slip into the air and be invisible with Hannibal next to him, flowing through the world with control. 

They will never be husband-like, he’s almost certain, at the very least. They are different than that, he thinks, staring at Hannibal’s relaxed face across the living room. He’s as still as a ghost. Will can almost convince himself he’s a figment of his imagination.

His life is going to get a lot more interesting soon. Slowly, Hannibal opens his eyes and his pupils are already focused on Will’s, as though he’d been staring beneath his eyelids the entire time.

“Will. What are you thinking?” Hannibal inquires again. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

Will refuses to speak again. He turns his head away from the view and looks out the window at the dark city.


	2. Virginia, USA

Sleep doesn’t come to him, as he’d expected. 

Will lays on top of his sheets and wishes he stayed where Hannibal was. Kept him in sight. It takes constant effort to convince himself that Hannibal is with him still. The now chronic ache in his injured shoulder when he tosses and turns is associated with so much emotional pain throughout the past few months that it feels multiplied and nearly unbearable. 

The visual reminder of his scars doesn't allow him to forget about Hannibal for more than a day at a time. He remembers Molly running her fingers over the raised line on his stomach one time and the way he’d grabbed her hand too hard, too painfully, and spent a day apologizing for the bruise. It didn’t feel right for her to touch it.

Now Hannibal has marked his body with chronic pain. Indirectly, just as some of his worst deeds against Will have been. Every twitch of the injured joint brings Will back to the night on the cliff, the conclusion of his questionable decisions. The ache shooting across his clavicle sparks something in his heart, a whisper of what he felt pressing his cheek to Hannibal’s chest, what he hasn’t felt in the same intensity since. Associations he will never shake.

His shoulder aches in varying severity during every minute of every day. There is no running from these thoughts.

Bitterness keeps him in his room, waiting for the day to break. He doesn’t have anything to pass the time and it drags on with dull boredom made worse by the vague feeling that there’s something he needs to do. Only a symptom of his anxiety. He imagines the next few weeks of running and getting settled will be frustratingly tedious. It’s so contradictory to the urges he has right now. The burn inside of him.

At the smell of coffee, he rolls out of bed immediately. He doesn’t even look at his eyebags or his curly knots in the mirror, he knows they’re there and there’s nothing to fix them.

He finds some fresh underwear and a white t-shirt in the drawers and walks out of the room, bare feet slapping the floor.

Hannibal is looking so put-together that Will would assume he’s just had a long night's sleep if he didn’t know better. He imagines Hannibal doesn’t need much sleep. Maybe he enters his mind palace to rejuvenate in a half-aware state. He wonders where Hannibal goes during those times. If Will is with him.

“Good morning, Will. Trouble sleeping?” Hannibal passes him a steaming cup of coffee. Will brings it up to his face and it fogs his glasses. He lets out a grumbling noise in response.

“Of course a hunt is an intense experience for you, especially in the midst of its rarity and spontaneity, you ultimately lose control over it. It will inevitably affect your physical body, flood your brain with hormones.”

“I didn’t exactly hunt,” Will says.

“No. I suppose it was a delivery service. Omelette?” Hannibal is already tying an apron around himself and Will nods. His appetite seems to be at an all-time high along with his energy.

He watches Hannibal cook for only a few moments before walking to the window. Soon his abandoned cell phone will receive a text from Jack. Then a more threatening text about Will learning how to reply promptly goddamnit. Then, maybe a few hours later, Jack will go to his house. He will stare devastatingly at the scene. He will look for evidence that Will has been manipulated and bring in the FBI and ignore them when they say things he doesn’t want to hear. He will gather as many forces as possible to look for him in the first 48 hours, expecting an attempted escape rather than their hiding in plain—well, rather gaudy—sight.

Jack has already shifted all of Will’s responsibility onto his own, every injury and deception linked to Jack’s requests of him. Will wishes he could have made it more obvious, provided Jack some semblance of peace. Jack would hate him, and it would be right.

-

Jack was hesitant to invite Will to crime scenes, but Will always came easy, circled around bloodstains.

“Sandra Rose. Thirty-four years old, divorced, veterinarian,” Jack said.

Will nodded. He thought briefly of the empty cat trees and food dishes, and wherever those pets might be. Probably with some grieving family member who doesn't know how to care for them.

Jack passed him a photograph and kept a hand on Will’s shoulder, probably an attempt to be grounding, but it just felt rather heavy. The photo was not of the scene but of the paramedics taking her away. Forensic photographers were new to emergencies like this, and mostly for Will’s specific benefit. For the phenomenon Freddie Lounds called ‘serial murderer turned serial mutilator’. Will could see the smooth cuts in her abdomen. She was pierced with a stick that barely missed her heart. His design.

It took a toll on him. It was all wrong. He swayed on his feet and felt a strong itch to leave the tainted apartment as soon as he'd come.

“It’s him,” Will said, passing the photos back and turning to leave for good. Jack held onto his shoulder tighter and Will winced.

“ _Why_ , Will,” he said. It was more of a command than a question and a strangely comforting reminder of how they used to be when he didn’t treat Will quite so much like a shattered teacup.

He paused replying. He almost wanted to say _do your job and figure it out your damn self,_ but that anger didn't actually exist inside of him. What was the better option? _Well, he’s showing me that he can no longer kill without me, that he refuses to go on alone, refuses to live alone at all in fact. He’s signalling my attention, keeping me in limbo knowing he’s close so I can’t possibly forget about him and attempt to move on. He’s symbolizing all the pain I have caused, a thousand knives to the torso without relief because now I am finally listening and seeing._

“He’s toying with me,” Will said, simply, his back turned.

“You know more than that, Will, I know you do.”

Will stepped out of Jack’s grip and walked to the door, listening to Jack say, “Please, Will, reach out to me, if anything, _anything…”_

-

“Will.”

He turns and sits obediently at the table and Hannibal sets the omelette in front of him, cubes of meat throughout. Its presentation is obnoxiously immaculate for something as simple as eggs.

“Did you know she worked at the veterinary clinic I went to?” Will asks. 

“I did. I don’t imagine she was the vet you corresponded with, though.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Will looks up at him with confusion.

“You wouldn’t have approved of her.” 

Will raises one eyebrow.

“She received quite large dividends for promoting unethical pet food brands,” Hannibal explains.

“A modern-day superhero you are,” Will says, bitterly. “What did Mr. Schrover do?”

“Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll tell you another time,” Hannibal says.

“He was abusive. To his… wife?” Will says.

Hannibal tilts his head. “Yes.”

“So were they rude to your standards or were you deliberately trying to appeal to my standards?” Will asks.

“I believe that’s quite obvious. But our standards do overlap some.”

Will clenches his teeth. “I’m not as much like you as you want to think. I don’t plan murders when someone is rude to me in a shop.”

“No. But you may reach a barrier when you are searching for that feeling over and over again, and it is reassuring to have set standards.”

It makes Will feel dizzy to discuss this aloud. Hannibal is the only person he could ever articulate his hidden desires to, and they understood each other well enough that they never officially articulated it. They jumped ten steps ahead. Discussing first-degree murder, casually, over home-cooked breakfast. This is what Will signed up for, though, isn’t it? Hannibal would never give this life up. And Will can never unsee the beauty, even if it feels near-impossible to drop his reservations.

“Next time you want me to kill someone, ask me,” Will says, his voice practically a growl.

“I will not ask. I will follow you.”

Will chews the tough meat satisfactorily. It is a gratifying thing to hear Hannibal commit to him, even though a part of his mind wonders if it is all manipulation. He _wants_ to believe, desperately, but the higher he goes the farther the fall.

Will stabs another bite. “I would have hunted Mr. Schrover if you had asked me. We could have done it together.”

“That will come. It is dangerous in this city, you are too recognizable.”

“And you aren’t?”

“You need a space to be able to lose control.”

“I don’t—”

“I would like to give it to you. Your imagination is delightful.”

Will looks him in the eyes. “But you must relinquish that control to me. I will not stand for this otherwise.”

  
  
“I will. I promise.”

“Don’t always keep your promises, do you?” Will asks, thinking suddenly of how Alana will react to the scene. If she will also think Will saved her, or if she will see the complexity beneath.  
  


“Well, I still might. I assume your wording was intentional.”

“I’m not ready for it.”

“No. You’re not,” Hannibal says, but Will doesn’t feel the judgement. He feels Hannibal’s expectation.

He and Alana stretched further and further until he didn't even recognize her in his memories. The scar of her disbelief continues to burn. He would respect her to the end, though. Eventually. She would be beautiful, he thinks, and the thought surprises him. His anger that she let him fall could never cover up his regard for Alana. The strange desire to consume, still. Now to hurt.

When he finishes breakfast he feels aimless yet again. He knows he cannot leave, knows he cannot release what is stirring inside of him. He does the dishes for something to do with his hands and then it's over and he’s standing aimlessly in the make-do kitchen and staring at Hannibal expectantly.

Hannibal looks back. Eye contact is easy for him and therefore proves nothing to Will. It’s the care he takes to hide his face. Will has seen behind the mask before and thought they would be past that by now, but Hannibal is not letting him in.

Will stares at him challengingly. Let him interpret it if he’s so smart and all-knowing.

Slowly he sees the mask fade and Hannibal looks almost defeated, his eyes dark and his demeanour faded. He looks… broken. Will has seen this look before, always of his own fault, and it doesn’t make it easier. 

They haven’t had truly open communication in all the time they’ve known each other and Will doesn’t know how to start now. He doesn’t know how he would go about it to a normal person, let alone this man who he equates more with the devil reincarnate. And he sympathizes with said devil reincarnate right now.

“I’m sorry,” Will says, surprising even himself. “I also made you wait.”

“I have already forgiven you, Will.”

Will tilts his head. “You’re not hurt. You’re worried.”

Hannibal smiles. “I am hopeful yet reserved. My dog off a leash.”

“You would like to put me on a leash. You are trying.” Will takes a step closer.

“I am trying to resist the urge to do so. I want you to blossom on your own.”

“With you.”

“With me.”

“You may not get everything you’re hoping for from me, Hannibal.” His voice comes out gentler. 

“My worst fear falls closer to the opposite, actually.”

Will frowns in understanding. His instability, his recklessness, his delusions and hang-ups, the possibility for him to lose control. Like a newborn vampire. Hannibal is worried Will may lose control at the same time as he wants it to happen, he thinks. Could Hannibal be worried about breaking him totally and completely? It falls in line with his vision of the love Hannibal has for him—selfish, serving love for the gains of indulgence and passion. A psychopath cannot truly love. But Hannibal is not a psychopath.

“We are trekking on uneven terrain. I must be careful,” Hannibal says. “I fear I have made a mistake not fully acknowledging my happiness for your return, but do not misinterpret my composure for apathy, I truly am pleased about your return, more than I can describe.”

Hannibal walks forward and places a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, words can’t describe,” Will mutters, exasperated. He rubs at his tired eyes 

“No, they cannot.”

“Just. Manage your expectations,” Will says. He isn’t sure what compels him, but it doesn’t elicit the sad reaction he expects. Not like the last time he rejected Hannibal. 

“And you yourself,” Hannibal replies. He stares deeper into Will’s eyes and he can see he is only slightly relaxed. The thought of Hannibal harbouring secrets at this time is a scary thought. No one knows where Will is right now. If Hannibal kills him he will be left to be found very soon, displayed in a manner he can’t even imagine, though he has tried.

Will looks at the wall. “When I killed Mr. Schrover, I felt you there with me.”

“And I was. As you were engaging my mind was only on you and what you may be feeling. It was as if your passion flowed into mine, even as we were apart physically. My spirit is always with you, and it grew stronger in that moment.”

-

He twisted the rod inside of Mr. Schover and the scream was overwhelming. Will watched the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes strain. He was trying to back away from Will but he was restrained too well. Will took a look at the handcuffs around his wrists and began searching for the key. 

He found it easily, in his bedside drawer. He unlocked the handcuffs with trembling hands. Once one was unlocked, he had to duck to avoid a sloppy punch to his jaw. 

“Whoa. Tell me how you really feel,” Will said. He twisted the rod once again and the man was twisted up in enough pain that Will could get the other handcuff off without getting knocked in the face. He laughed at his own joke and could suddenly see Hannibal next to him, staring at him with amusement.

He jumped back then, waiting to see if the man would run or try to fight. To Will’s delight, he came toward him with fists posed. Of course, he was a man of aggression and pride.

Will grabbed the fishing rod sticking out of him and the man held onto it in desperation, trying to stop it from wiggling around in his guts. He cried out and attempted to remove it, but quickly gave up when his eyes nearly popped out in pain. Good, Will thought, he likely would have passed out if he succeeded.

Will began pulling him backward, reeling him in. The man cried out and walked forward with the tug on his insides. Blood poured out where the stick met his skin. Will pulled him all the way to the kitchen, by which time the man vomited all over the floor.

He could hear Hannibal clucking in his ear at the mess.

Before the man could fall over, Will grabbed a knife from the blood box and stuck it in his chest, dragging and feeling the tug of skin and flesh and the splatter of blood before the man collapsed, breaking the tip of the fishing rod under his dead weight.

Aftershocks ran through his body as he took the time to breathe in.

-

There is no hiding from his desires. From what makes him feel most alive, what has always been there. He smiles. There’s something funny about it. Having the confirmation of who Mr. Schrover was relieves some of his reservations, though not all. He was still a person. Will is still a cold-blooded killer. He doesn’t know if he’s genuinely unbothered by the thought or if he’s bottling up some nasty guilt and panic deep inside where it’s currently untouchable.

He blinks as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Hannibal is watching him.

“How well you begin to see the world as you become yourself.”

Will smiles and this time it’s genuine. For a moment, he feels no discomfort or intimidation whatsoever. Just a strange warmth.

He swallows and extracts himself from their eye contact, looking around the room instead for something to distract his mind.

“Any Internet here?” he asks.

-

He reads tattlecrime.com for the better part of the next few days, lounging in suits that are slightly too big and scowling at the articles. He catalogues the knowledge in his memory with the information Freddie posts. 

Freddie obviously believes Will has finally proven himself to be a dangerous killer and that it’s long past the time when the FBI should have realized it. He’s run off with his ‘murder husband’ and everyone should be afraid. Jack makes a statement that is far too hopeful and vague. Freddie predicts his termination at the FBI and Will wonders if she’s correct about that, too.

When Will shows Hannibal the article he barely regards it. He’s left alone in his anxiety, drowning and gasping for air out of his fish tank.

He goes back over years of articles, taking particular interest in each one about the Chesapeake Ripper until he runs out completely. He doesn’t have a plan to distract himself when he reaches her very last article.

He’s beginning to realize why he feels so on edge here, aside from sharing living quarters with a cannibal. (Said-cannibal is currently sketching a building Will doesn’t recognize with a relaxed look on his face.) 

The apartment is high in the sky, even sitting on the balcony the people below look like ants. He sits there for a few minutes until he worries people in the parallel buildings might recognize him. There is only one exit, aside from the drop off the balcony, and that is one fall they will not survive.

He has practically none of his own items, but he’s surrounded by Hannibal’s aesthetic and it sets him on edge. The space is too big, too clean. Fresh air feels far away. He itches for the comforts and coping mechanisms he has at home, even though he gave most of them up in the last few months. He considers ripping off a strip of the couch and making a fishing line with its thread just to calm his nerves.

His dogs are still with Molly, left there as his recovery dragged on and the divorce finalized. He misses them the most, not without guilt. He leaves any thoughts of Molly and Walter on the outskirts of his mind. Sometimes they compress into his skull, but usually, he turns his back on it to avoid the guilt.

He has entered Hannibal’s world and left the rest behind, only a couple shreds of fabric and crooked glasses kept from his old life. It’s suffocating. Hannibal’s world has never welcomed him easily, he’s reminded of incarceration and hospitals and _ends._

When he hears someone climbing up the rings on the balcony he knows he’s truly losing it. He decides he is going to kill everyone in his path so they can escape to Canada after all, he will not be merciful for his freedom from this place. He clutches a knife and backs to the spot in the hotel where he can see both exits and that is where Hannibal finds him and slowly corners him.

He doesn’t look concerned; he regards Will with curiosity and compassion.

“Tell me what it is, Will.”

He knows it’s a delusion and yet his feelings don’t waver. He clutches the knife harder.

“Will.” Hannibal holds out his hand. Will keeps the knife and spreads his legs to stand ready so Hannibal can’t take it from him.

The image of slicing the knife across Hannibal’s gut flashes through his mind. If he could even make it that far. He could throw the knife, then get to see Hannibal come right back at him. Will might be slightly faster than Hannibal with his size but only slightly. Hannibal is probably stronger when he considers his bad shoulder.

If he were to kill Hannibal, it would be best to catch him asleep, the moments of which seem rare (and questionable). It occurs to him that he could try to kill Hannibal by seducing him. The thought gives him an exciting feeling in his gut. A flawed plan nonetheless, to assume Hannibal is susceptible to being seduced, that he would allow himself to be distracted by it, and that he wouldn’t be _more_ poised to fight back. Will has almost no idea of Hannibal’s feelings in that regard.

Hannibal stands tall and tilts his head, watching Will. Will doesn't doubt that he knows the gist of his thought processes right now. When he gets lost inside of his thoughts he has no idea what shows on the outside, but he reckons Hannibal would be able to tell either way.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows slightly as if challenging Will and holds out his hand again. He’s noticed Will blink back into reality.

A reality that is just as crazy as his wildest dreams at this point. He doesn’t want to surprise Hannibal and kill him that way. He wants a fight. And he would inevitably lose.

He wants to kill Hannibal but he doesn’t want Hannibal to be gone. That contradiction is even more impossible to surpass. He glares at Hannibal, not bothering to hide his frustrated bloodlust, and then walks away to put the knife back himself.

“At first, you didn’t seem to intend the attack for me. What were you attacking?” Hannibal asks, his voice merely curious.

“Defending. I thought… I thought people were coming for us, up the balcony and down the hallway.”

Hannibal nods in understanding as if it’s not a completely irrational reaction to nothing.

“And when there wasn’t a real threat that you could fight and consume, your attention turned to me, and your preexisting desire to kill me. I had wondered if it continued to this day.”

“Always.” Will smiles without much feeling behind it.

“And you pointed a knife at me. Have your opinions of the intimacy of killing with your bare hands changed?”

“No. I’m just more likely to succeed with a knife,” Will sneers. He leans his head on the counter in response to the sudden dizziness following his episode. He’s not entirely sure it’s done with. His muscles strain against the tension in him and he rolls his bad shoulder slowly. That metallic taste fills his mouth again.

“You still doubt that you could fight and win against me using your hands,” Hannibal observes.

“I might injure you or get ahead with an element of surprise but only before you snap me like a twig. I’ve lost strength.”

  
All Hannibal says is “hm” and Will holds back a roll of his eyes. He reckons Hannibal enjoys hearing it. Yet he wonders if Hannibal really does see more potential in Will than he does himself. 

Will doesn’t believe in his own ability, but part of the reason is that he knows he will hesitate. A deadly state in a fight. He can no longer be sure of his desires and he is much more interested in finally having Hannibal next to him. At this point, he is in too deep to genuinely kill Hannibal.

He would likely accept his own death easier. He isn’t sure what that says about his feelings. He knows for certain he couldn’t survive their separation now, and perhaps couldn’t survive the end of Hannibal’s life either.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Will confirms with a sigh.

“Not yet,” Hannibal says. Will jerks his eyes up and sees the amusement in his laugh lines. He smiles back.

“Yeah. Not yet.”

“You ought to relax,” Hannibal says.

Will huffs out a laugh. Hannibal walks closer, steps quick and sure, and Will tenses even more. Hands land on the back of his shoulder and he has to resist the urge to twist away. He considers that now may be the moment he is snapped in half like a twig but he imagines Hannibal would be more creative given the chance. 

Instead, Hannibal’s hands move near the top of his spine and he realizes it’s a massage. He keeps his shoulders raised to save his neck, but thumbs continue to rub into his trapezius, less pressure on the side of his bad shoulder.

“Will. This is not a natural position. Relax your shoulders.”

Tentatively, Will lowers his shoulders. Hannibal’s hands press deep into the muscles and it feels like he’s just pressed all the right buttons. The ache of tightly held joints and the amalgamation of his ageing and injuries suddenly experience a respite. There is still a dull ache in his shoulder but one that feels more akin to pleasure.

Hannibal’s fingers rest on the sides of his neck and he feels that stirring in his gut again. Hannibal is so close behind him that he can feel his breath on the back of his neck. That combined with the firmness and skill of his hands brings on a sudden shiver that runs up from his lower back to the base of his skull and he immediately twists out of Hannibal’s hands and shakes out his shoulders from the overwhelming feeling.

“Okay, I don’t need a massage, I’m really fine.”

“It may help with the pain. I don’t doubt you’ve suffered for most of your life with that posture of yours, and your shoulder will never fully heal, will it?”

“My posture is fine.”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows and stares at Will’s shoulders doubtfully. 

“I’ll let you know if I need a creepy massage, okay?”

Hannibal looks immediately affronted. “I—”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m sure you have experience in some kind of exotic massage therapy from across the world, you don’t need to prove it to me.”

“Exotic?” He looks amused now.

“Foreign.”

“Since our reunion, you are suddenly uncomfortable with me touching you, or being too close. You used to be rather passive and unbothered when given physical affection.”

Will feels as though the shape of Hannibal is a ghost along the entirety of his back so he can’t exactly pretend physical proximity isn’t different now. Or that he doesn’t know why, either. Except he was never a _passive_ recipient, only an immobile recipient, but the last touch they shared crossed the line of intimacy that he had ever shared with anyone else, let alone someone like Hannibal. The intensity of those feelings had surprised him.

Will scrunches up his face and shrugs with his good shoulder. “Well…”

“Well?”

Will shakes his head and avoids eye contact with Hannibal.

“I have been patient with your refusals to answer my questions but you must understand how frustrating it is.”

Will can’t exactly tell him that his feelings have turned increasingly erotic and complicated by the knowledge of Hannibal’s love for him that stroking his cheek and massaging his shoulder now feels unbearable. It had always felt intimate but now it feels like it may be his undoing. He’s suddenly aroused by a massage that lasted seconds and he doesn’t doubt the evidence is clear to Hannibal.

“It feels too intimate,” Will finally chokes out. He should have continued to refuse to answer, Hannibal be damned.

“Too intimate based on what measurement?” Hannibal is clearly amused.

“Subjectively.” _Asshole,_ Will adds on in his head.

“Then what makes it too intimate?”

Will glares at him. “We’re friends.”

“We are.”

“And you’re not my psychiatrist. So let me set my boundaries without question.”

“What are your boundaries then?”

Will pauses. It’s a strange feeling to both ache for and want to run from physical contact.

“Just don’t touch me,” he says finally. 

  
Hannibal nods studiously and Will has the horrible, regretful feeling that if he ever wants Hannibal to touch him again he’s going to have to _ask_ for it. His frustration only grows and he almost wishes he could send the knife straight through that masked face, after all. Push down every overwhelming feeling.


	3. Quebec, CA

Will practically runs to the car when they step outside. He has been suffocating for far too long, itching for things he could not have. Too close to Hannibal but also painfully far.

He and Hannibal talked a lot but about nothing of substance. They discussed Freddie Lounds' articles and Jack’s statement and the news. They talked offhandedly about food and the recent victims. They organized this trip together, finally. Will wonders if movement will spark another step past the barriers he still feels between them.

They drive to a new parking garage and climb into a navy blue SUV that makes it look like they are venturing out on a family camping trip.

Will takes the driver's seat first. It’s more of a relief than anything, seeing the world pass by as he drives further and further from his home with little regret. Aside from missing his dogs. He rolls down his window part way and turns on the classic rock radio station and ignores Hannibal’s silent annoyance.

He is unbelievably paranoid at their first gas station stop but Hannibal walks in like it’s nothing and the attendant shows no signs of recognition, even as their faces stare back at him on the copy of Tattle Crime sitting right at the front.

He remembers a time when he was invisible in the world, before his esteem and reputation grew past something he could control. How he wishes he could turn into a shadow that only Hannibal could see.

Hannibal turns off the radio when he drives and Will settles back into comfortable silence. With so much ahead of them the suffocation of desire is replaced with anticipation.

The evening light is dim when they roll up to the border. Will has flipped through his fake papers and memorized the information. 

A young white man with large glasses and wide eyes greet them. He is large, undeniably strong-built. Will can see his mouth moving but he does not comprehend their conversation as he focuses on observing the unsettling man. When those big eyes move on him he stares back in wonder. They never leave his gaze, even as he continues to speak to Hannibal. It all makes sense as to why _this_ man would help Hannibal over the border. 

Will catches his name, _Octavius,_ which sounds pretentious enough for Hannibal. He doesn’t seem exactly high class, though, rather he looks quite wild and unkempt. Hungry.

They drive on quickly into Montreal while the sun sets at an increasing rate. They go through a drive-thru, which is a strange element to see Hannibal in, especially as he mumbles in a strange mix of French and English.

It’s dark when they drive on. Will is grateful to see trees surround them as they bypass the big city for someplace much darker and quieter. 

He’s not sure if he should speak aloud what he’s sure Hannibal is already aware of, what he might have even planned, but his nerves are growing harder to ignore. 

“You know he’s following us, right?” Will asks.

Hannibal smiles at him.

“Right on,” Will says, leaning to peer in his mirror again at the dark vehicle trailing them. 

He bounces his leg up and down in repeated motion for a good fifteen minutes until Hannibal puts a gentle hand on his knee.

“Enough,” is all he says, pulling his hand back again. Will huffs. He feels the spot where Hannibal’s hand rested vividly. Hannibal hasn’t so much as brushed against him until this moment.

“I’m annoying you, am I?”

“Incessant tapping isn’t exactly music to my ears.”

He considers bouncing his legs again to instigate conflict but he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him so he just stretches out his legs and slouches.

“And you say your posture is fine,” Hannibal mutters with distaste.

Will glares at him and resists the urge to sit up like an obedient schoolboy. “I’m sure even hunchbacks have a decent quality of life.”

“Hm.”

“Sorry I don’t have a stick up my ass at all hours of the day,” Will says. He can’t even consider why his rudeness may be a bad idea when he’s filled with agitation and anticipation. He sneaks a glance at Hannibal to see a small smile plastered on his face.

Hannibal opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” Will warns. Hannibal looks smug. 

They sit in silence for a while but Will is too energized to sit still.

“Are we going to do anything about said-psychopath who is following us, then? Invite him to dinner?” Will asks.

“He doesn’t appear to require an invitation, he is quite determined to show up on his own.”

“Clearly.”

“Tell me, Will, what did you think of dear Octavius?”

“He is… a collector.”  
  
“Mm.”

“He sees the world very differently. His literal sight is different. Or so he thinks.” 

“Very good.” He sounds proud.

“He is desperate. It’s going to be his downfall, reaching for too much.”

“I agree. One must have a degree of restraint and patience.”

“He was your patient?”  
  


“Indeed. 

“He is quite relentless when it comes to us,” Will says.

“Well, he has been waiting for you for quite some time now.”

Will realizes this is the second serial killer Hannibal has sent after him in the form of a gift. 

They eventually pull up to a cabin. It’s undeniably luxurious but Will lets out a long breath at how homely it is. He feels like he can touch things here. They carry their food into the warm light of the kitchen and Will peers through the tall windows, waiting. He reckons the killer will draw this part out. Will is fine with that. He opens all the drawers in the kitchen, taking stock, before reaching the cutlery and then dumping his take-out on a plate. 

He sits across from Hannibal in the dim light and can’t help but stare at the other man. It gives him a sense of pride to see the fascination in Hannibal’s eyes, his high expectations. Will thinks he can meet these expectations tonight. He’s serving justice for a lot of truly poor victims, he can only imagine.

Life feels utterly surreal at the moment. Many of his fantasies in the time away from Hannibal turned so vivid he thought they were real. He could wake up any moment, find himself in Wolf Trap, next to Jack at a crime scene, lying close to Molly, sitting in a prison cell. They are all equally plausible, as is the reality of sitting across from Hannibal in an escape house.

Hannibal is only wearing a sweater today, casual for him. It reminds Will of the night on the cliff. He wonders how he will feel by the end of this night, if the same surreal euphoria will come to him. The light reflects off of Hannibal’s cheekbones as he chews.

He nearly kissed Hannibal that night. He could feel the pull, as if they were opposite magnets he grew tired of holding apart. 

The pang of regret as gravity dissipated below him still haunts his nightmares. He knew as the wind whipped his hair around and his gut dropped that they could die and he would never know if he and Hannibal would have worked. He also knew that if he kissed Hannibal he may not have been able to keep control and their demise would come sooner.

And yet Hannibal is here in front of him, again. His millionth chance. Something in the world went right to allow him this chance. It feels like fate.

The further he ventures into this life, the fewer chances he has to return home. It isn’t for reasons of his friends or his freedom, his ruined reputation. There’s a fair chance he can be acquitted by citing the master manipulations of the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s that the more entwined he is with Hannibal the harder it is going to be to walk away.

It’s not about fear for his own life anymore, not really. The fear that truly plagues him is being apart from Hannibal. He reckons they could mesh completely and ripping them apart would instantly stop the beat of their hearts.

Restrained urges are tipping over and pouring out at a speed he can barely process. He doesn’t know if he can handle it. His brain isn’t stable in the best of times, but this life is a destiny he cannot begin to process. 

Even if he admits the general concept is irresistibly enticing.

He’s getting too riled up by the anticipation of this prey to-be. Hannibal can probably smell it on him. He makes sure to avoid eye contact, wait until his face cools. Except he doesn’t want to run from this feeling. It energizes him, makes him feel alive, capable. Indulgent. He realizes, for what is the first time in his life, he’s thinking almost solely about his own desires.

They clean up, orbiting around each other in the kitchen in heavy silence. Will walks throughout the entire house, considers the unconventional weapons at his disposal, notes every entrance and window. He leaves it all unlocked. He stakes out every room, furnished and clean. He lingers in the master bedroom for a few moments too long. He pulls an armchair into the centre of the house, directly between entrances so no surprises are possible from behind his head. He turns off every light except for Hannibal’s reading lamp.

Hannibal looks intimidatingly casual, sat on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. Will stays poised and ready. Either he’s that confident in his abilities, or he trusts Will right now. A couple of hours drag on. For once, he isn’t trembling, but he knows that energy will be released later.

He jolts at a single tapping noise from outside of the house. Hannibal looks toward him slowly, a knowing look, before turning back to his book. Will knows how sharp and ready Hannibal truly is. He’s enjoying every second of this, completely in his element. 

Maybe Will is, as well. The tapping carries around the house and he pictures where Octavius is moving. It continues, back and forth, and when it pauses he looks to the opposite side of the house. Hannibal puts his wine glass down.

Octavius emerges from the dark hallway so only his silhouette is visible. Will watches him, still in his seat. 

“How good of you to join us finally,” Hannibal says from behind his book.

Octavius puts a toolbox on the ground with a clatter, opens it up, pulls out a knife and lobs it directly at Hannibal’s head.

Will is the only one to gasp, but he shoots his head around to see the knife sticking out of the hardcover of the book, all the way to the hilt. Hannibal slowly lowers the book and pulls out the knife, frowning.

Will stands, taking the knife he hid in the armchair.

Octavius is impressively unbothered. He believes he has already won this fight, that no matter what, the end will be in his favour. He leans down and pulls what looks like a dart out of his bag. Will steps forward, but not fast enough before Octavius chucks the dart right at his arm.

At first, he’s grateful it’s not a knife, it’s barely larger than a thumbtack, but surely there’s a more malicious reason for such a seemingly-weak weapon. Will rips it out of his bicep in an instant. The pain makes everything feel more real.

He stalks forward faster but Octavius pulls out a syringe. Poison, that makes sense. Will experiences a wave of dizziness that may very well be a placebo but he arches around the man more carefully. Now standing face to face he feels small, but he can also tell that Octavius lacks speed.

“You know, I’m very curious about what you actually want from me,” Will says. He stays a good distance away as Octavius looks like he’s ready to pounce.

The man smiles and his eyes go shockingly wider, big circles where Will can see the line of white all the way around his irises. His eyes are a light blue that seems to fade into the rest of his massive eyes. 

“Your sight,” he says. His voice is light and excited.

“Ah,” Will says, beginning to understand. Although he’s still curious about the process.

Octavius licks his lips.

“My sight will be interesting, won’t it? You have heard how I can _see_ people, obviously.” Will’s arm burns, more than it should for such a prick. He’s beginning to think the dizziness isn’t a placebo.

“Oh yes.”

“You will be all-seeing, won’t you? The more you take the more you can see.” Will shifts his weight on his feet to stay ready. He realizes he’s walked directly in between Hannibal and Octavius like a shield.

“I can see everything,” he says. 

“Almost,” Will corrects, pointing to his own eyes.

Octavius lunges forward and Will takes note of his direction and moves the other way. Octavius grabs him but Will is far enough to slip out of his grasp and throw a punch to his face. The impact and the visual of Octavius’ face snapping backward makes him shiver with excitement. Octavius skips away only a foot and Will moves around so that Octavius is between the two of them. Another wave of dizziness threatens to tip him over.

He sneaks a glance at Hannibal and sees the focus in his eyes. 

“I thought you were going to give him to me,” Octavius says. There is a slight whine in his voice that reminds Will of a child. 

“I _am_ very proud of how confident you have grown since the time I knew you. I see you have done great things,” Hannibal says.

“I have.”

“Tell me, how have you managed to take people’s sight?” 

Octavius is proud and excited when he speaks. Like it’s a discovery he’s been waiting years to share. “I swallow their eyeballs, they stay within me, along with everything they have seen.”

“Hm.” Hannibal smiles.

Will sees it immediately. The swing of a pendulum. Octavius pulling eyeballs out of sockets and gnawing through the flesh until they’re free. The pendulum swings again. Victims restrained, poisoned and screaming. And again. Swallowing, crushing the eyes with his throat so they ooze liquid down his esophagus. 

Will can hear the smile in his voice. He understands now, the pieces coming together. He puts his knife down on the table.

“It is quite greedy, is it not? To steal from so many,” Hannibal says.

“No, it’s not. I make good use of them.”

“You gain pleasure from the power you do not even enjoy, you hoard,” Hannibal explains.

“No. No,” Octavius denies. 

Will sees his composure slip as his confidence wavers and lunges forward, grabbing Octavius’ hand to stab the needle into his own shoulder. He cannot push it all the way down before a strong hand whacks him in the face and sends him a few strides back. 

“I can see you from the back of my head!” Octavius yells. He sways on his feet and pulls out the syringe. “Do not underestimate me, Will Graham.”

Will tries desperately to steady himself amidst his swimming mind and unpredictable sight. A moment more, he has to make it or he may get hurt still.

Will sees Hannibal move and Octavius sends an elbow backward but not before Hannibal can kick the backs of his knees and send him to the floor. Before he’s even kicked him, Will has the knife back in his hands and is stabbing it right into his left eye socket.

A scream emerges from the man that sounds to be more of devastation than pain. He tries to send the syringe into Hannibal behind him but Will grabs his hand and twists until he hears a crack, while Hannibal gets a strong grip on his head. He thrashes until Hannibal grabs his arms and twists upward so he’s in a grip he cannot escape, though he tries. Life is slipping out of him rapidly as the poison travels through his veins and the blood trickles back out his eye.

Will watches the scene for a moment, at the tight, sure grip Hannibal has on him, which looks strangely gentle but for the screams of pain that come out. The image warps in front of him but he can see the beauty nonetheless, all the life fizzing into the room and swallowing them up.

“I will take it! I can still see!” Octavius yells. He nearly knocks Hannibal off with his struggling but Will can see his consciousness fall right in front of his eyes.  
  


Will walks to the toolbox and takes note of all the instruments, scoops and scissors and pliers. He smiles darkly and begins shoving them, one by one, into Octavius’ eye sockets.

-

Will is laying on the floor, propped up by the chair at his back. He’s panting heavily, his chest rising and falling to a beat. The poison may not have been enough to disarm him, but it is enough to fill him with nausea and dizziness. He tries desperately to stay awake, to watch the scene in front of him. The world spins as he watches Hannibal carefully take out the tools clustered in Octavius’ eyeholes. He scoops out the innards into a bowl with one of Octavius’ tools and then gently shoves Octavius’ fingers into the gaping wounds as far as they can go, sewing around the perimeter so his hands stay shoved into his own eye sockets. 

Will laughs. Hard. It looks utterly ghastly and his imagination runs wild. Every time he looks at it, he falls into a fit of giggles. Hannibal finally looks at him over his shoulders.

“Is something funny?”

Will keeps laughing and shakes his head. “No, not at all.”

Will might be going crazy but he thinks Hannibal looks almost fond for a moment. Then, he leaves the room and Will goes silent. He wonders when Hannibal’s presence began to feel as important as breathing.

Hannibal returns quickly, though, wielding the hand-held buzz saw. Will starts laughing again.

“Not _again_ , oh please,” he says, putting a hand to the scar on his forehead, but finds he’s completely void of actual fear.

“It is not for your sake this time, fortunately.”

As Hannibal buzzes through Octavius’ skull, Will imagines it being done to him. Imagines the firm, careful hands making such a smooth line along his skull as if he’s forming a piece of art. It isn’t hard to imagine with the real memory in his mind. Blood drips down his pale forehead, bright.

Jack’s screaming grew more and more distant from across the table. All he could feel when Hannibal pressed the spinning blade against his head was his warm fingers. The memory seems dissonant in his mind. How easily Hannibal could have killed him at that moment. Slowly, greedily. He continues to live in the same world where the man he connects to the most has the capability to take his life wholly and completely. Without care, even. At least in the sense Will desires.

He was worth the care of a design he imagines was a great feat even from Hannibal, to pick his brain apart. He is worth the care of grooming for greater potential. He is worth the care of Hannibal’s gaze of affection. He is worth three years of Hannibal’s freedom all for this moment. It may be enough.

Hannibal lifts the skull off and puts Octavius’ brain to the side. Will’s laughter fizzles out as the minutes drag on, and he feels entranced by the work. It’s like watching Hannibal cook but even more captivating. He opens the man’s gut and wraps up a few organs in saran wrap. It threatens to bring on another attack of laughter but Will is feeling too subdued for such a thing, all of his effort trained on keeping his eyes open. Hannibal then pulls out the intestines and puts it directly in the hole where his brain should be, packing it in tight. He sets the brain back on top so it appears that his brain has overflown out of his skull. He sews up the man’s torso with perfectly spaced out stitches. Finally, he takes off his gloves.

“Beautiful. Horrific,” Will mutters. Hannibal stands and faces Will and he feels the strange urge to clap. He almost does. Hannibal looks proud and capable and very, very beautiful.

He looks back at the art piece. “He took too much, became obsessed with gaining knowledge and capability. Grasping for sight. Talk about a big head. A grotesque end suits him,” Will says.

“He had an obsessive fear of growing blind when he first came to me,” Hannibal explains.

It is ghastly and it is beautiful. It must be seen. He holds out his hand and lets Hannibal pull all of his weight to a stand. He wavers on the spot. 

“I have nothing for the poison, but it will wear off soon. His goal was to subdue, not kill.” 

Will nods in understanding. He’s still clutching onto Hannibal’s hand and suddenly he doesn’t want to let go. He stares up at him. This is their element, and all he can see is beauty. He smiles.

“How good it is to see you thrive. The true use of sight is to see yourself, where you do best, and this, Will, is what you do best.”

“I mean, I did get poisoned and smacked in the face.” He can feel the slight swelling of his lip.

“You will learn to be more careful with time. Possibly. Perhaps you will always be overwhelmed with the feelings. You enjoy the fight, the utilization of your hands.”

Will sways on his feet. He sets his spinning head right on Hannibal’s shoulder and then pulls back with a snap, wondering what the hell he’s doing. 

Hannibal pushes his hair off his forehead, which he is now realizing is sweaty and gross, and for a moment Will thinks Hannibal might kiss him on the head. Of course he doesn’t, but he does begin to lead Will to the vehicle and help him into the passenger's seat.

The body goes in the trunk over a protective plastic sheet. Will rolls down the windows as they drive and stares into the dark. He swears he sees a stag off in the trees, staring up at them. He isn’t sure if it’s before or after he drifts into a twitching sleep.

He watches wistfully as Hannibal sets the body on a bench near the road. It looks off into a nice view of a lake, a clear tourist spot for photos. He wishes he could get out and help, but the poison continues to make everything look dizzy and surreal and threaten sickness. He misses Hannibal for those two minutes that he spends arranging the body perfectly.

He climbs back into the car with an aura of contentment. Will holds out his hand and Hannibal slips his own into Will’s as if it’s natural for them.

Will stares at their entwined hands and Hannibal stares at him. He ought to be confident but his fluttering heart pushes him elsewhere. After another moment he extracts his hand from the warmth of Hannibal’s. From those shockingly soft hands. He puts his head back against the seat and squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain.

“That poison is fucking with my head,” he says. An excuse. 

He is dizzy, but he also feels more clarity than he ever does in his day to day life.

The same soft, warm hand falls on his forehead, under his curls. It’s a grounding, firm touch and he stays still as Hannibal checks for a fever.

“Are you hallucinating?” Hannibal asks, hand lingering for only a moment more. 

Will thinks of the stag he saw. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says.

“Are you doubting your reality?”

“The reality of me murdering someone who wanted to swallow my actual eyeballs whole?”

“Yes, that reality.” Will opens his eyes and sees Hannibal smiling. Then he sees the dead body and realizes that they aren’t moving.

“We need to go. Someone might drive by.” Will sits up and looks back and forth down the road with sudden panic.

“Unlikely. But we will leave.” Hannibal puts the car into drive and pulls out in the direction back home. Will stares at his hand and wonders what on earth compelled him to try to hold hands with Hannibal. 

It was a nice feeling, though. The remnants of touch linger on. He leans his head back and smiles. This is euphoria. Without the side effects of the poison, he would likely feel like he could take over the world.

-

They sit by a lamp and Will unbuttons his shirt slowly, just enough to pull his shoulder through and reveal where the dart pierced his skin. It bled little but the skin surrounding is a vibrant red. Hannibal cleans it gently and tenderly. Will is in no rush.

Then suddenly Hannibal is dabbing a wet cloth on his face. He hadn’t realized his lip split but now he knows there has been blood dribbled down his chin this entire time. Hannibal washes it off, and Will refrains from a comment about being able to do it himself. 

Part of him wishes Hannibal sustained an injury for Will to clean and bandage. Their moment is over far too soon.

Will lays back on the couch and watches Hannibal clean the blood on the floor. He finds a blanket and wraps it up to his chin. Killing is a lot of work. The kind of tedious but beautiful labour he could get used to.

Hannibal is serene when he sits on the couch near Will’s feet. He puts one hand on Will’s knee and reads his book with the other. Will watches him. They stay there until the sun rises, shining through the cabin windows and warming their temporary home.


	4. Quebec, CA; La Habana, CU

Will walks around in an exuberant mood for the next few days. He recovers from the poison quickly and gets out his remaining energy by chopping wood and starting fires and cutting the grass and tinkering with the engine to the boat left on the land. He fishes in the river a couple of miles away. Hours fly by in real contentment. He imagines Hannibal browsing and choosing a place specifically suited to all of his interests. For him.

He finds some thick plaid jackets in a closet and wonders if he would be a bad person to steal from whoever stays here usually. Then he wonders why he’s more worried about petty theft than murder.

It’s a great deal more comfortable being next to the woods. It reminds him of his own home and he feels safely out of reach. The same news is being regurgitated on tattlecrime.com but the local news is more interesting, describing the murder, and the subsequent discovery that Octavius is the man who was responsible for dead bodies with ripped-out eyes floating in the river. He wonders if Jack will get a whiff of it and recognize the whimsy in the presentation.

“Do you think his diet of eyeballs is going to make our meal, uh, less good?” Will asks, leaning over the counter as Hannibal cooks. Hannibal doesn’t even humour that comment.

He continues to have a giant appetite, ravishing through Hannibal’s admittedly delectable meals. He almost wishes they could stay here forever, coexisting comfortably. Hannibal could lure in immoral people to kill and Will could fish in the river nearby. But he knows this is only the start of their journey. 

He spends as much time as he can outside to prepare for his future of hiding. He watches the birds and the squirrels and the deer and throws bits of food to lure them in. When Hannibal steps outside, all of the animals run off immediately. 

“If you could stop scaring off all the woodland creatures it would be really great,” he says. 

“I only wish to observe. I have no intention to scare.”

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, you tend to be a bit intimidating.”

“I intimidate you?”

“No.” 

“Hm. Well, I suppose you are like a modern-day Snow White and I am the Witch? In this scenario.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person to give something as banal as Disney the time of day.”

“I did have a childhood. And live in a society.”

“Yeah, like, two centuries ago.”

Hannibal walks forward and stands next to where Will is leaning on the fence post staring into the woods.

“Do I need to help bring you back to reality, Will?”

Will tries to hold down his smile but it’s hard when he gets to see Hannibal’s subtly playful side.

“All I’m saying is you have quite a lot in common with Dracula.”  
  
“Do I?”

“Nocturnal, foreign, rich… eats people.” 

“Not their blood, exactly,” Hannibal says.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, personally.”

“I reckon you would be one of the vampire sisters, then.”

Will furrows his eyebrows at that comment. Hannibal claps a hand on his shoulder. 

“You prefer animals over people, don’t you, Will?”

“Animals and vampires, apparently.”

Hannibal smiles. “More enjoyable to empathize with animals?”

“Less complicated.”

“Yes. They follow their instincts, even when that leads to violence and death. They are innocent until facing their needs and ruthless to those below them. There is relief in such freedom. Fighting for their life in equilibrium with the natural world.”

“I want to be a woodland creature, then?”

“Maybe a stray puppy, looking for a home. But you still envy those who live in the woods.” Hannibal smiles.

“Despite all my warnings, you continue to try and psychoanalyze me.”

“I am trying to understand you, as your friend, I reckon there’s a difference.”

“Only in motive.”

“Doesn’t that matter? Or would you not like to be seen at all?”

Will sighs. “Why do you have to say puppy? I am a well-seasoned dog, at _least_ , at this point.”

In his periphery he sees Hannibal look him up and down. He considers strutting off but he just looks the other way so that Hannibal can’t see his smile. Hannibal’s attention strokes his ego. At least he’s aware of his newfound self-centredness.

“You are a withering feline,” Will says, with snark.

“I enjoy this game we are playing, comparing each other to characters and non-humans.”

“God, shut up.” Will puts his hand on his face. 

“As a wild… _dog_ , you would likely ravage a ‘withering’ feline.”

Will shrugs. “Cats can be pretty ruthless. Smarter, too.”

“I’d rather have our unconventional friendship.”

Hannibal leans on the railing and Will mirrors him, leaning in a bit closer than he ever would have before. 

He imagines how they may appear to anyone on the outside. He can almost understand the rumours, though he still resents the invasion.

He leans against the piano while Hannibal plays in the evening. Even he can tell it’s slightly off-tune (and Hannibal complains about it enough) but somehow it still comes out captivatingly. 

Then, Hannibal shuffles over and pats the seat.

“Na-ah, I’ll just listen.” Will crosses his arms.

“Please, Will, humour me. I have seen your piano. It wasn’t dusty.”

_Not dusty five years ago,_ he thinks. 

“No.”

“Will.”

Hannibal stares up at him with big eyes and Will loses his resolve, mostly because he knows the pressure will never end. He sits and sighs dramatically.

“I _am_ out of practice. I wasn’t great to begin with.”

Hannibal does a movement that might be a shrug and Will snorts. Mere adequacy is probably a failure to Hannibal. He plays a chord.

“It’s not going to be to your _taste_ ,” Will sneers. Hannibal smiles and waits.

Will glares at the wall for a moment more and begins playing the song he thinks he knows best. All of his knowledge is of sad rock songs from the ’60s and '70s that his father loved. The crunchy sound through the radio that grasped for connection on their patch of farmland was no match for the crispness of their instruments and voices. His father did not accept failure and Will practiced for long hours. It was one of the only preoccupations of Will’s that his father didn’t side-eye or overtly discourage. Music was time spent when they didn’t need to talk or think, it was a different kind of connection, and a rare one. Vinyl to fill the silence when they could finally afford it. The memory fills his surroundings, clear evidence that he was never completely disjointed from his family, as much as he let himself believe it when they grew estranged.

He winces every time he makes a mistake but by the end his fingers seem to have brought back a visceral memory of his younger years and he closes his eyes and feels the music moving through him. When had his special interests slipped away from him so wholly until he had nothing left?

He realizes he hasn’t been so consistently happy as he has this week for as long as he can remember. He feels _alive,_ and it can’t just be the aftershocks of his kills.

For the last few lines of the song, he surprises himself with the urge to sing, but he holds back. It is strangely easy to feel at peace with Hannibal over his shoulder. His happiness has brought some unexpected peace to his memories and his present.

He stops abruptly and shrugs modestly before chancing a glance at Hannibal.

The gaze surprises him. He’s all soft edges and shiny eyes and a real smile. Will looks away quickly and stares at the keys.

“It may not have been perfect but it certainly was endearing,” Hannibal says, placing a hand on his back and staring relentlessly. Will nods shortly.

Lord, he’s sweating already. He needs to get outside, or something.

He wonders, not for the first time, not even for the hundredth time, what Hannibal wants from him. What he may eventually ask for and subsequently take. Will stands, pushing the bench with a harsh scrape along the floor and walks outside until he’s at the edge of the woods. He spots a squirrel and keeps his eyes trained on it as he waits to calm down.

Scars cover his body and more are felt within, all made overwhelmingly from this man. It’s one thing to toy with the idea of a death wish. The idea of a tender relationship _should_ sicken him. How could he do that to himself? He is stepping right into the potential of manipulation and pain he’s never felt before, the kind that twists at his most vulnerable feelings.

Soft footsteps come up behind him and stop. He shivers and the squirrel runs away.

“I know by now you must understand the importance of letting go of shame, of following your urges past all barriers of conventionality.”

Will clenches his jaw and feels it tremble slightly with the effort.

“I only wish to show you respect, Will.”

“You don’t have a very good track record,” Will says.

“I do have considerable restraint and a strong interest in your wellbeing.”

Will nods. The problem is not that Hannibal makes him feel uncomfortable. It is that he feels so wholly comfortable here that he may lose himself completely into the other man. He stands still and quiet until Hannibal walks off.

-

Too soon, it is time to leave. 

They cut each other's hair shorter and Hannibal pushes his own up into a quiff. After a week of not shaving, he has a fair spread of stubble. Will shaves his own beard and dons some wide, square glasses. Hannibal is drowning in misfitted suits and Will wears a too-tight graphic tee and jeans. To say they aren’t looking their best is an understatement. He looks like a student and Hannibal looks like his weird professor and perhaps that’s their best strategy for disguise.

They take two suitcases and abandon many items in a trashcan far away. As far as Will knows, he might have identical clothing waiting for him at every one of Hannibal’s secret homes.

It is terrifying to be in an airport. Swarms of people and security and booths that sell crime magazines. He doesn’t look. 

On the other hand, this setting could be his saviour. He could make an excuse to walk away and whisper to an attendant to call the police. There are enough witnesses and security surrounding them. Hannibal may kill savagely, but could he escape? 

It’s merely interesting to toy with the idea. He has no plan to give up. He stands close to Hannibal with excitement. If a day comes where he regrets this venture, he hopes he can forgive himself.

Fate could swoop in and save him. The security guard who pats him down might recognize him, and life will be ripped away before he’s had a chance to ruin everything. If that happens, he will have to settle with the idea of losing out on this path of greatness and adventure. At this point it would devastate him.

He follows in Hannibal’s image and walks with purpose and no one even glances at them.

-

They walk off the plane into humidity and swarms of security guards that don't acknowledge them. 

The taxi ride is long and Will has to listen to Hannibal and the taxi driver conversing in Spanish and laughing cordially the entire way. He stares out the window at the unfamiliar city filled with opportunity for them. Everything is so alive and he feels his heart pick up speed.

They arrive at their rental home and Will walks around in awe at the place. He’s had few vacations in his life but suddenly he can understand. A life outside of expectation, a life for pleasure and indulgence. 

The building is noticeably old but has clearly been renovated multiple times over creating a discord of atmosphere. The furniture is all creme coloured and clean, the windows wide to brighten it further. The kitchen is grand and stocked and the living room fit with a startlingly large television. There’s a pool in the backyard and the smell of salt indicates how close the ocean is. It is difficult to imagine him and Hannibal lounging outside together, but the majority of his life is difficult to imagine. Sweat is dripping down his hairline and already he knows he’s going to be in a constant state of _moistness_ here. 

Hannibal is upstairs unpacking his luggage when someone knocks on the door. Will is wandering aimlessly still, practically speechless. He opens the door with a genuine smile and finds a short young woman with dark skin and a nervous smile. 

“Hello,” she waves awkwardly. “Dr. Celter?”

He points behind him at the thin air. “Hah, no. That’s my… I’m Will.” He almost rolls his eyes at his own awkwardness.

She smiles. “I’m Rosalyn.”

They nod at each other for a moment and Will thinks it should be illegal for two people with such fantastical social awkwardness to be left to introductions.

“Oh! Well basically I’m here to answer any questions you have. If you want to do excursions or if you have any questions about the place… I’m—it’s my papa’s business, that’s the name you’ve been given on this lease, but I help him out.” 

Her accent shows the more she talks. He can see the timid way she holds herself and can immediately imagine the ways she tries to impress her father, how much she wants to get away and be a new, free person. He can feel it. He smiles a little sadly at her.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing much assistance, it’s a rather… mundane holiday, but I appreciate it.”

When she smiles she looks relieved at his kindness. He can only imagine the rich pricks she gets to interact with. There’s one just upstairs, in fact.

She leans in a bit. “The gates to the private beaches close by rarely get locked, just saying, for your mundane activities. Otherwise, I’ll leave my contact and you can send any questions my way, but don’t worry, you will have lots of privacy here.”

He recognizes the assumption in her words but her kindness touches him. She is bright and longing for more, he knows it well, can see it reflected back to him. Poor girl.

He forces a grin. He’s staring at her hand grabbing the business card when she stops moving completely, her hand paused in thin air. He brings his eyes back up to her face and watches her skin turn pale. Her eyes widen and Will realizes.

_No._

He looks over his shoulder to see Hannibal standing in the middle of the room, smiling innocently. He looks between the two of them.

“Will, we must welcome our visitor. Please, come in.”

Rosalyn stares at him with pure terror on her face. She knows who he is, there is no doubt there. Somehow, Will isn’t surprised that she’s the kind of person to know about them, probably through true crime websites. He almost wishes he’d recognized it a couple of minutes earlier to avoid this. She doesn’t move.

Hannibal’s voice becomes more firm, like a scolding father. He beckons with his hand.

“Come inside.”

She moves in past Will on stiff legs. He almost wants to push her out the door, tell her to run, but he also knows it is not a good idea.

To her credit, she tries to talk her way out of it. Her voice grows more and more high-pitched as it goes on. “Dr. Celter… it must be. I’ve just explained to your… I’m going to leave my contact, for any questions, but I cannot stay long today. I r-really sh-should…” She starts to move to the door and Hannibal steps forward. It’s authoritative enough that Will can’t blame her for stopping in the spot.

He already feels defeated. This is the life he chose, didn’t he? Hannibal’s face has made international news in niche publishing, it was only a matter of time before this happened and Will should be happy that it is such a vulnerable, isolated person who couldn’t get in their way if she tried.

“Let me offer you a beverage?” Hannibal smiles charmingly. Will might have been able to give in to the act if Rosalyn wasn’t shaking so much that her teeth chattered. 

She looks back at Will. She can't be finding any comfort in his dead expression. He looks away completely and walks stiffly to the kitchen. God, he hurts for her already.

Hannibal puts his hand on Will’s shoulder and tentatively lifts his head.

“You understand our necessity, yes?”

Hannibal didn’t need to come downstairs. He didn’t need to risk it. Will just nods, shakily.

“You may want to go for a walk. If you like her so much, we will honour her in whatever way you feel is best. But it is too risky to let her go.”

His voice is different from the faux-sweetness he used on Rosalyn. Hannibal looks regretful, but Will reckons it’s for his sake, not Rosalyn’s. No, Hannibal won’t give this another thought. He is probably happy for the fresh, young meat. What Cuban dish will he make? What will he think when Will chews on every bite he’s given? 

Will’s chest aches with a familiar burn. One he can’t ignore. He takes a minute to pull himself together. Now he must act on instinct and nothing more.

“I will stay,” Will says. He thinks he’s trembling almost as much as she is. He raises his eyebrows and widens his eyes to stare at Hannibal with as much sincerity as he can muster. “I made this choice. For you.”

Staring into Hannibal’s eyes is too much. He looks away.

Two hands go on either side of his face to pull him back. Hannibal observes him. Waits.

“She is good,” Will continues. “It will be beautiful, won’t it? Not grotesque like Octavius, but innocent and free. That’s what she needs.”

As he says it, he believes it. He imagines her flying. He imagines her father regretting his treatment of her and finally seeing his daughter free, looking out at the ocean along the private beaches, trying to escape this world where she cannot thrive. He would not make it hurt for her, the life would go out like a flickering light. They would put roses in her hair. She would taste beautiful. His eyelashes flutter as he thinks about it.

When his eyes focus again, Hannibal is so close and he’s staring at Will in amazement. Will doesn’t think anyone has ever looked at him this way. Hannibal strokes through his hair, making shivers run up his back. He doesn’t pull away from the feeling.

He cannot deny this connection. This understanding that digs so much deeper. There are no words to describe, and there are no words needed anyway. There is no denying what pulses between them, what they both crave, and here Will has been letting time slip between his fingers again when everything in his life pushes him to one thing. Into happiness, and maybe he should stop feeling guilty about that and just take it. 

It suddenly seems like a travesty _not_ to kiss Hannibal. 

Before he lets go completely, he focuses back on the present, on the lingering feeling in his chest. He must control himself right now.

Suddenly, Hannibal sighs and breaks the spell before Will can rip out of it himself.

“Rosalyn,” he says, like a disappointed father. He looks at Will one more time, his eyes almost pained, then he pushes Will’s hair off of his forehead and kisses him right on his scar. Will stares at his throat as he does so.

Hannibal drops his hands and Will feels their absence strongly. He watches Hannibal step toward Rosalyn with a hand outstretched while she fumbles with the cellphone she’s carefully extracted from her purse. She pauses but grips it tight and starts to beg for her life in Spanish.

Will gulps. Sometimes he feels so much like Hannibal he wants to bury into his body and become one with him. To experience every beautiful thing he’s been invited to. And Will understands. It is breathtakingly beautiful. But it also _hurts_.

Who is he? If he gives in to this cold-blooded murder he is no vigilante, he is only a narcissist who wants to take for his own desire, and he cannot yet convince himself that the pain is worth it, not when he’s seen it before his eyes his entire life. For many of those victims, life would have been more beautiful than taking it. He understands that power, he sees through Hannibal’s eyes and he craves it, too. And he resents it.

Rosalyn is slowly passing over her phone, crippled under Hannibal’s stare and desperate to not make this worse for herself. 

Will wants her to feel alive. She has potential.

He doesn’t think, he only acts. One moment the vase of flowers is beautifully arranged on the counter and the next they are smashing into the back of Hannibal’s head, whipping water across the room and ripping flowers to dead little shreds. Rosalyn gasps and Hannibal falls like a dead weight.

Fuck. Will drops to his knees and rolls Hannibal over. He puts his ear above his mouth and two fingers on his pulse and tries to listen for a beat past the sound of his own blood rushing up and down his body. The sound is deafening. He’s been reduced to liquid and his body is a waterfall crashing into rocks.

Finally, he hears Hannibal’s heart. He grabs a dishtowel and shoves it under Hannibal’s head where he knows the impact was.

Rosalyn moves in the corner of his eye. 

“Stop!” he shouts and stares her down. She shakes her head in desperation. Will needs to be gentler, but inside he is all pounding pulses and fighting mode. 

“Police!” she says, typing into her phone.

He pants in and out and his head shakes like a bobblehead with his trembling. He pushes to his feet and moves fast to grab her thin wrists. She clutches onto the phone still but stares up at him.

“Please. Listen to me.” He needs to think fast. He shakes his head to try to get out the nerves and _think._

“You know who he is, yes, he’s Hannibal Lecter, and I am Will Graham, you can google me and find my face—”

“I remember you,” she scrambles out with a shock as she realizes. “I read th-the… oh Dios mío, _fuck_ …”

“I’m innocent,” he yells. That can’t help his case. He tries desperately to breathe normally but so much is banking on this moment. _Think._

“I’m not _like_ that,” he says. “Hannibal is dangerous. I pretended to be in love with him and I ran away with him so that I could kill him. I needed to lower his barriers. He is dangerous, he was always going to escape prison and kill my friends eventually and this is the only way I could stop him. I need to kill him.”

It sounds convincing even to his own ears. He’s practically begging.

“We will call the police, they will understand,” she says, so kindly that Will almost wants to cry. She’s looking at him with so much sympathy. She believes him already.

He doesn’t believe himself. He wants Hannibal and he needs to fix this.

He scrambles over his words for a moment. “No, because of his accomplice! Chiyoh is her name, she will see the news and she will come and kill me, too.”

She stares wide-eyed.

“I am doing what it takes,” he assures, and as the story comes together in his head he begins to relax. “Give me three days. I have him down now and I will finish the job. It will be enough time to run and cover my tracks so that I can finally live in peace, away from him. That is all I ever wanted. He ruined my life, you remember the stories, don’t you? I was framed and gutted and sawed, among so many things, it’s the only way I can get away, past the trauma.”

She nods. Her eyes are so wide that Will thinks back to Octavius for a second. He is getting his own reality mixed up.

“Wait three days, please, then call Jack Crawford, he will know Chiyoh. I must give you his number.” He looks around and then he sees Rosalyn’s business card on the floor. He snatches it up and she produces a pen from her purse. He writes the number he’s memorized for Jack on the back and shakes it at her.

“Tell Jack that Hannibal is dead and Will Graham has run away for his safety, that no one needs to worry anymore. I ran away because of Chiyoh. He will understand. I did what I needed to.”

She is still shaking badly. He notices her uncertainty.

Will leans in closer and whispers, staring into her eyes.

“If the police come before I finish the job then Hannibal will eventually escape jail and come for you and everyone you love. I have told you about Chiyoh’s protectiveness as well. Keep the blood off your hands, and keep your family safe. Be only a witness. It is our best attempt at finally getting rid of Hannibal the Cannibal. You read about him. You know it must be done. And I don’t want to be killed by Hannibal, not after everything.”

She nods, there are tears gushing now, shining against her pretty skin. Will puts a hand on the side of her neck and holds her tight.

“If you call in, you will have my blood on your hands. And I will come for you before Chiyoh comes for me. You don’t want to piss off someone like me. There’s a reason I have survived with Hannibal.”

Her eyes are unbearably wide and fearful. His words only compound what she has probably read from Freddie Lounds’ conspiracies.

“Take a picture of him, you can send it to Jack.”

Will watches her click off of the screen on her phone that has the emergency number typed in. 

She takes a few shaky photos. She’s making light whimper sounds, the light behind her eyes starting to go out.

“Promise me,” Will says, and he looks at her in a way that she knows he’s being serious about coming after her. And Will thinks, if this is the end of Hannibal, he just might come after her for real.

“I promise, I _promise,_ ” she says shakily. 

“Then I promise you will be okay. I couldn’t handle seeing him hurt you, and I sped up my plans _for you._ Rosalyn. Don’t make me regret it.”

She cries more at that. 

“He might wake up soon. Go. And keep your promise, don’t even tell anyone.”

“I promise, I promise,” she nods fervently. She’s muttering it even as Will pushes her out of the door, a hyperventilating mess. And off she goes, running to her car.

Will locks the door and then gets a fist in his hair and tugs it until it hurts. He is hyperventilating himself. What has he done?

He runs toward Hannibal and gets his hand back on his neck. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved in his life until the moment when he finds a light pulse. There is a fair amount of blood. And the potential for brain damage. White flashes in front of his eyes as he imagines it.

Hannibal could become like one of his own victims from before. He may fall into a coma, never wake up. Stuck in between, floating aimlessly, all because of Will. This is not the way Hannibal should go. This is not _when_ Hannibal should go. Will _needs_ him.

He brushes away the glass on either side of Hannibal’s head and then drags him across the hardwood. A thin trail of blood follows. It takes him a few tries to lift Hannibal onto the couch because he’s so heavy, but Will manages it. He wets the towel with cold water and sticks it under Hannibal’s head, pressing it where he’s been cut.

He feels lost taking care of Hannibal when he’s unconscious. He doesn’t know if Hannibal will need stitches or anything. He needs guidance and he has none.

Further than that, the police may show up to his door any second now. This life of his could end in so many equally horrendous ways all because he couldn’t commit to this side of him. He couldn’t kill to be alive.

Will lets out a sob. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then presses a kiss to Hannibal’s forehead. “I do want this I j-just… I couldn’t this time. I would have lost myself to you, there would be no line. I can’t.”

He takes a moment to stare at Hannibal. There are no barriers up right now. He is strangely peaceful. Innocent. Beautiful. Will runs a finger over his cheekbone. _He_ did this to Hannibal.

They haven’t had enough time together. He wants more. He wants fate to play his cards well and bring Hannibal back in time for them to run away. Is fate that much in his favour? Or has it run out?

Suddenly, he cannot look at Hannibal. He cannot see him in this position that he put him in. 

He walks away and sits where Rosalyn sat at the table and puts his head in his hands to wait for whichever comes first, the police or Hannibal or nothing at all.


	5. La Habana, CU; Atlantic Ocean

His eyes open but see nothing. His most overwhelming sense is of a dull, creaking pain as he stretches out his back and numb shoulder. It takes the smell of sea salt to remember who he is, where he is, and why he’s passed out on the table where Rosalyn once sat.

And what the source of the noise behind him might be.

He stubs his toe on the table leg as he extracts himself from his awkward sleeping position. In the next moment a lamp turns on and Will freezes. 

Hannibal is standing up. At first, Will feels such a rush of relief that it takes his breath away. He jerks his head around the room but already he knows they are alone and a great deal of time has passed.

Hannibal is touching the back of his head and when he pulls his hand back it’s covered in blood. He looks up into Will’s eyes with his mouth set in a line and a terrifying glint in his eyes.

Will can’t move. He can’t do anything, even when Hannibal walks toward him, his eyes trained on Will like prey. Each footstep is deafening and sure, taking him past the lamp so he's only a dark silhouette when Will is grabbed by the shoulders and walked backward until he's slammed into the wall so hard he sees a flash of light take over his vision. 

He hears the clatter of a photo frame crashing to the ground and his own cry of distress. All of his limbs buckle beneath him but Hannibal keeps him pinned and steady. His lungs have ceased to take any air into his chest and he is already underwater, drowning, searching for something. His entire eyesight shifts and warps with dizziness and the back of his head throbs.

If it couldn’t get worse, a hand wraps around his neck and squeezes. He’s taken his last breath and this is how he’s going to die, isn’t it? How he should have died in the sea below the cliff, his lungs filling with liquid and his heart stopping slowly as he reaches out for the person responsible, the most intimate of feats.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is level and eerily normal. “What have you done?”

He tries to shake his head. Hannibal responds by pressing him upward so Will's feet just barely leave the ground and he begins to wonder if his voicebox will be crushed. The need for air is becoming painful and he kicks his legs and pulls at Hannibal’s arms with increasing panic until finally, the hand loosens and he scrambles to feel the ground beneath his feet again.

He can’t get a breath still, he clings onto Hannibal’s shoulders and tries to stay upright. He coughs out twice and then finally manages to pull air into his chest, though not enough. He wheezes twice more, hungry for it when Hannibal gets a hand into his hair and pulls his head back. A whimper is drawn out of his throat.

He feels vulnerable and exposed, unsure of why he isn't fighting back, why suddenly his body has decided to freeze instead and replace his blood with water sloshing through his veins. 

“What have you done?” Hannibal repeats.

“She didn’t… call…” Will wheezes.

“The police?”

“Look outside. It’s been…” he wheezes. “Fuck, it’s been hours.”

Hannibal observes him. Will’s scalp is tingling with pain and he still can’t move. He tells himself to fight back, punch or kick or bite, but all he can muster is a defiant glare, still a great deal of effort when Hannibal's eyes look so deeply through him.

“What did you do?” Hannibal asks.

“Made up… a story…. And threatened her.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“We have three days. Jack Crawford… she will call him then. She promised.”

Hannibal glares at him and Will glares back. He sees tears come to Hannibal’s eyes and his hand is squeezing around his clump of hair so hard that his hand trembles.

“You’re hurting me. _Stop_ ,” Will whines. 

Hannibal loosens his grip so fast that Will nearly falls to the floor. He can feel himself slipping on the water below his feet, the water he was just drowning on. He struggles to straighten up and focus his eyesight.

“I didn’t betray you,” Will insists, breathing heavily.

Hannibal stares at him with sad disappointment and it’s too much. Will feels a rush of anger.

“You said you would follow me!” Will protests. “I have given the FBI reason to think you’re dead and we have time to leave.”

There is pain behind Hannibal’s eyes, behind the sheen of tears. Will has seen this face before and it hurts.

“Don't lie to me, Will.” 

“I'm not, I swear.”

“I was coming in and out of consciousness.”

Will shakes his head, which hurts his brain immediately. He wonders how much their pain aligns right now. It feels as though he can feel Hannibal's injury on himself. 

“I made it all up.”

Hannibal continues staring around his face. _Let him see_ , Will thinks. 

“If you don’t believe me, just finish the job. Kill me now. Hang me up for Jack to fly over and find in three days' time. Eat my fucking heart, I don’t care,” Will sneers.

Hannibal sighs and his eyes lose their heat. “We must call a taxi. Grab your things and clean up your neck.”

“My neck..?” Will mutters. Hannibal is walking away then running up the stairs, leaving Will breathing heavily and doing his best to stay upright.

Will eventually walks to the bathroom on trembling legs to find a handprint in Hannibal’s blood imprinted right where Hannibal choked him. He scrubs it off until his skin is raw. His hands are trembling so much that he can barely do it.

After scrambling for their things and leaving blood stains and glass around the home, they hurry out the door into the dark night. He gets into the taxi stiffly, both because of Hannibal and because he is in pain. Hannibal groans next to him. A white bandage covers the back of his head. He leans over to whisper in his ear and Will goes impossibly tenser.

“I will follow you. Tell me where to go. Or we will go aimlessly, as far away as possible,” Hannibal says. His voice is devoid of emotion. Will feels unnerved, but he must go on.

He breathes in through his nose. “Can you buy me a sailboat?”

Hannibal simply leans forward and tells the driver instructions.

-

They go to the only store they can find that's open, eerily empty and too fluorescent for the dark night, creating an anxiety-inducing level of exposure and a throbbing behind his eyes. He walks one step behind Hannibal and stares at the white of his bandage. He watches a rich red hue spread from the centre and expand until blood is dripping down his back. And then it disappears. 

They arrive at a dock to survey one of the only boats they could find an owner for. The dark mixed with their time restraint doesn’t allow Will to actually check the supplies. He has a roll of duct tape, lines of rope and tools left on the boat and it will have to be enough.

Without looking Hannibal in the eye, because he’s decided not to look at or speak to him for the time being, he nods. 

Will catches sight of the wad of cash that Hannibal hands over and the indications of fear rolling off of the man he's buying from, and Will decides not to question it right now. They throw their luggage on their new boat and Will, slowly, because of all the pain he’s in, takes stock of everything and prepares to sail. Hints of light on the horizon eventually signal their time to leave.

The boatyard and cement buildings grow small and blurred until Will can no longer make out the shape of people, only the line of the island that he will never see after all. Perhaps he’s made a deal with the devil for this continued chance of survival. His payoff will surely be worse. But for now, he’s giving the devil silent treatment.

The steady rock of the boat and the wind in his face used to be comforting. It became his pacifier for those long months of travelling, for the times he ran through memories obsessively, for a piece of reality when the boat filled with Abigail and Beverly and Hobbes and the voices became too loud and contradicting. He’s currently having a strange recognition of that ache he was harbouring for so long.

Except Hannibal is here, within a dozen feet at all times. It will be this way for a long while, whether he wants it or not. And Will wants to move closer, receive some comfort at the same time as he wants to throw Hannibal overboard the first chance he gets. The back of his head is still aching from being slammed and grabbed and it feels like every bone in his body aches. Especially his shoulder. He feels like he’s just experienced what the full force of a tiger feels like. He instinctively steps away when Hannibal stands next to him at the bow.

“Tell me everything you said to her.”

Will sighs. He can’t reasonably ignore Hannibal in this space. 

“That when you escaped I pretended to be on your side so that I could eventually kill you. And that if she meddles in things too soon she will have _someone_ coming after her for revenge, whether it’s you, Chiyoh… or me. And that she would likely get me killed.”

“She is likely very suddenly attached and devoted to you for she feels so connected to you. Both victims. And you are her saviour, she is indebted.”

“Yep.” Will stares out to the land, only a sliver of colour left as the living world slips away again.

After a moment of silence Hannibal says, “Your plan seemed to have worked out well thus far.”

Will straightens up and turns to look directly at Hannibal. He raises his eyebrows and Hannibal frowns.

“Oh, did it?” Will says, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Hannibal is quiet for a moment. “Yes,” he gets out.

“How hard was that for you to say?” 

“Quite,” Hannibal says.

Will smiles smugly. “I reckon you also owe me an apology. I currently have a goose egg on the back of my head. And many bruises.”

“I am sorry, Will. I said I would follow you and I will.”

Will nods. The admission makes his heart beat faster. His anger fades slightly.

“Not to lose direction of our discussion, but I _also_ have a goose egg on my head. A rather bad one,” Hannibal says.

Will lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

Hannibal smiles at him. “Are we ‘even steven’?”

Will looks at him more seriously. “I don’t know that we are. I fight back; you hurt me into submission.”

Hannibal nods once but does not argue. 

“I never anticipated the consequences I would be dealt,” he says.

“What consequences?” Will scoffs.

“Having so much I cannot take back. You will flinch and resist and I will be waiting for you to turn your back.”

Will stays quiet. 

“In hindsight, it is not your story that bothers me so much, it is the instantaneous ease, extent and nature of your manipulation immediately before. A flawless act on your part to appeal to my weaknesses that you have scarcely acknowledged otherwise. Cruel, even for you,” Hannibal says.

Will has to lean down on the railing and breathe in and out. He wants to tell Hannibal that it was more than that, tell Hannibal that next time it will be real, that he only managed to lie so well by harnessing the truth but he can feel the physical evidence that he isn't ready to share it in every bruise, in the way his throat closes up, in the fear that still follows him, and the silence drags on without him getting a peep out.

“Yet you did not kill me,” Hannibal finally says.

“No.”

“Some contradictions, Will.”

“Any feelings I may have do not have to determine the choices I will make," he chokes out.

“When you finally align your deepest felt desires with your lifestyle you will live your truth.”

He feels his lip quiver as he tries to push away the bubbling emotions.

“But consider you’re in a contradicting scenario such as, let’s say, being drawn toward someone who has and will continue to commit unspeakable abuse toward you.” His voice is sarcastic and dry even as he feels the urge to console Hannibal's hurt. “When there is no realizing your ‘true potential’ without losing a great deal of yourself.”

Hannibal squints his eyes at the sun. There is a shine of tears.

“I knew what would hurt you the most, it was my full intention to do so, and I did it. Yet, I don’t feel like we are equal. I feel as though you are always trying to keep me one step below, pushing me forward and disciplining me for not going. Your expectations surpass my ability.”

Time drags on and Will wonders if Hannibal is thinking very hard about what to reply, or if he is refusing altogether. Will watches him for a moment, considers storming off to cry where he won't be seen, but then sees a trickle of blood run down the back of Hannibal's neck.

“You’re still bleeding,” Will whispers.

Hannibal doesn’t look surprised. “Yes. Not profusely. It could have been worse... for a head wound.”

“What can I do?”

“It will be fine.”

“Hannibal. What can I do?”

“Time will heal. It will be an ugly scar is all.”

“Do you need stitches? It’s been, what? Hours since...”

Hannibal hesitates.

“You have the supplies, I know you do,” Will says.

Hannibal stays silent.

“How many stitches do you need, Hannibal? Tell me.”

“Maybe one or two. I’m worried your hands tremble too much, combined with the rocking of the current.”

“Not when I am working. On my fish hooks. And the water is as calm as it gets, you get used to working in tandem with the sway.” He inches closer, getting a good look at the thick, red drop heading down the back of his shirt.

Hannibal seems to consider it for a moment. “Alright… It is probably for the best.”

“Yeah, you think? Tell me where the stuff is.”

Hannibal sighs at Will’s determined gaze and walks off to grab his first aid kit. For a few minutes, Hannibal rambles on with explanations. Will sews through a split orange peel to practice. There is a significant amount of blood matting to Hannibal’s hair that he cleans and then he can see where he hit him. ‘Goose egg’ seems to be an accurate description. The wound is small but gaping. Will stares at it in fascination as he cleans it out.

He kneels behind Hannibal on the deck floor while Hannibal puts his head in his knees. The first aid kit is open next to him. There are so many tools he could shove into Hannibal’s head right now, end it all. 

These murderous thoughts have been with him throughout his entire life, flashes and ideas and cravings. It feels all the more exciting when he thinks of it as potential rather than fantasy. With Hannibal, it still feels utterly fantastical. He cannot kill him.

“I made this choice, Hannibal. And I am still here with you. I have stuck myself on a tiny boat with you for the foreseeable future. My words aren’t reassuring, but at least see what my actions are.”

Hannibal nods, barely perceptible.

He rests his hands as gently as he can on Hannibal’s head and then slowly pushes one needle through. It is worlds different from the orange peel, fascinatingly so to see such a controlled pierce, and sharp enough to feel little restraint through Hannibal’s swollen skin. Blood oozes out of the wound and he dabs at it with a clean bandage. He ties the knot the same as he does for his fishing hooks, and snips it with sharp scissors. His hands barely shake. Hannibal does not react, but Will swears he can feel every bit of pain himself just staring at the raw skin. It feels strangely powerful to be the cause of such pain and to see Hannibal passive as he does so, it brings him a flash of confidence to know Hannibal is currently in his hands rather than the other way around. He clears his throat.

“It doesn’t mean I will never leave one day. We are not the exact same. You see me, too, so _understand_ me. Listen to me. Get out of your fantasies and learn to sacrifice if you want me here, or send me off. We... we could be good, Hannibal,” he says. He receives no response and he's glad for it.

He does one more stitch to be safe. His work is not particularly aesthetic, but it seems to do the job. He bandages it up again, slowly, wrapping around Hannibal’s forehead and when it is all finished he wishes he could keep caring for Hannibal. Keep him in this subdued state and speak his mind while those eyes aren’t boring into his. 

Hannibal doesn’t move for a few minutes so Will sits behind him. He considers rubbing Hannibal’s back but can't bring himself to do it in the end. He just stares at the bandage and wonders if he’s going to see more blood.

“Excuse me,” Hannibal says eventually. He pushes himself to his feet and Will watches as he moves to lean over the railing. And then he vomits down the side of the boat.

Will feels like he should look away, but it’s fascinating to see something so human and vulnerable from Hannibal. He does keep his distance and just watches Hannibal’s shoulders tremble.

“You get seasick? Or was that from the pain?” Will asks when it appears to be over.

“No. I may have a minor concussion, though the tide and the pain likely do not help.”  
  
“A concussion?! Why didn’t you say?”

“I said it was minor,” Hannibal mumbles. 

“You need to sleep. Go in the cabin.”  
  


Hannibal peers at Will for a moment, before nodding. He doesn’t move yet, though. He stares across the sea where the sun is reflecting gently over ripples of water like a subdued fire.

“Thank you, Will.”

He walks off and Will watches him in stunned silence, at the inkling of sentimentality under the words. He stares out into the sea until the only sensation he knows is the push and pull of the waves.

-

He has enough medical knowledge to know that he should wake Hannibal at intervals to ensure his condition hasn’t deteriorated. It isn’t as though there’s much to do if his brain has begun to bleed, other than find the nearest inhabited land and hope for continued luck.

The cabin is made up of two small cots on either side and Hannibal is wrapped under discoloured sheets. Will watches from the cabin door. He has the strange sensation that Hannibal is awake, always aware, but as he looks for longer he sees the peace and vulnerability and knows it isn’t true.

He walks closer and puts a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder.

His eyes pop open with a start and he grabs Will’s wrist in a grip that’s immediately painful. Will sucks in a breath and swears he can feel his bones grinding together. It takes a moment for Hannibal’s eyes to focus on Will and then he finally lets go and stares up at him in wonder. Even with his aching wrist, it’s fascinating to see Hannibal in this state. He doesn’t say anything, not even to apologize.

Will doesn’t want to say ‘I’m worried you’re going to die on me because I hit you too hard and your brain is bleeding from the inside out’ so he says, “Can I get you anything?”

“Some water?” he croaks.

Will goes to find a water bottle and then holds it at the base while Hannibal drinks. He puts his hand around the back of Hannibal’s neck and holds him firmly, just like Hannibal has to him before.

Hannibal stares in his eyes, waiting.

“I don’t only fight back,” Will says. “I look for my chances. And I enjoy it.”

Hannibal doesn’t look surprised. “You enjoyed hitting me with the vase.”

“I did. The moment of impact felt indescribable.”

“Only the moment?”

“... yes.”

Hannibal tries to sit up but Will puts his other hand on his chest and Hannibal settles back down.

“Do you enjoy hurting me?” Will asks.

“That is not so simple.”

“Compassion still inconvenient?” Will asks.

“I suppose life could be simpler. Easier. But I have never craved such a thing, though I resent many of the emotions I have been forced to work through as a result of you. I cannot destroy and consume you completely, as much as every cell in my soul aches to. On a more superficial level, you suffer so beautifully and yet I am terrified to lose you.”

“Are we going to kill each other? I want—I don’t know how to reconcile.”

“Contradictions to our becoming.”

“Yes,” Will says. 

“We have similar feelings, can we, therefore, find the equilibrium between?” Hannibal asks.

Will realizes he has been holding onto the back of Hannibal’s neck and rubbing his thumb against his pulse. Slowly, he pulls back.

“Get some rest,” Will says, walking out of the cabin.

-

Hannibal rests for a long time. Days drag on. For the first time ever, Will has to come to terms with Hannibal’s fragility. The fact that he isn’t unbreakable. That even with the bruises that Will harbours, he is currently the strong one on this boat.

It is cathartic to sail. To be the one with knowledge and skill, in his element. It’s tethering him to reality right now. It reminds him of his old life, of burying himself in nostalgic interests and working with his hands until the chafing pain drowned out the world around him. It allowed him to escape people and feel a sense of freedom, even as the feeling of something missing followed him through his entire life.

The painful reminder of his last trip to Europe still plagues him. He often walks in the cabin to make sure Hannibal is still there and he hasn’t been dreaming this whole time. It is far from inconceivable because it happened many times before, even when he hadn't yet come to terms with his feelings.

It is a long trek, with short stops to replenish their supplies along the way. He’s scared to consider what might happen when they arrive in Europe. He doesn’t have the same interpersonal skills that allow him to be liked or even unnoticed in a strange setting. He’d rather go back to America but he knows they would have a much larger chance of being recognized again.

Suddenly being lost in a foreign country is relatively _safe_. Only because they are now the danger.

His strength is going to waver soon. They must preserve their energy so they can eat less. There isn’t room to exercise either, he can only pace back and forth and stare out into the sea, trying not to think about how much of their fate he holds in his hands. 

The sailboat wasn’t as good quality as he had hoped and he has a project nearly every day. It’s mostly duct tape holding the ship together at this point. He rarely talks to Hannibal except to wake him up periodically and give him a ration of food. He sleeps on the single bed across the cabin from Hannibal’s cot and that’s when he hears Hannibal wake up and walk out on the deck. He isn’t sure if they have unspoken shifts or if Hannibal just cannot bear to be around him. He’s used to the silence, and he’s sure Hannibal is too.

As much as he feels the pull between them, he feels the door stopper as well. Hannibal has stopped touching him completely and he feels the absence like a constant itch he cannot scratch.

One night all he can feel is the ache of loneliness, the ache of his shoulder, one and the same. It’s unbearable. He walks the steps to find Hannibal leaning against the railing and goes to him.

Will only glances at him, at his hair whipping around his forehead. All these scenes he gets to see Hannibal in, where no one else will ever be able to observe as he does. He brushes their shoulders together and lets the feeling ground him while he tries to remind himself to stay afloat.

“Do you know of the constellation Boötes, the Herdsman?” Hannibal asks rather than questioning Will's sudden presence.

“I do not.” Will smiles the slightest bit in exaggerated fondness for the familiarity of Hannibal's thought processes.

“An ancient constellation. The oxen-driver. In one myth, Boötes is a representation of Arcas, the son of Zeus and Callisto. Arcas is fed to his father without his knowledge but he eventually recognizes his son's flesh. He manages to make his son whole again but promptly gives him away for another to raise. There are various renditions of his motives but few consider that he may have enjoyed the flesh too much, been overcome with the need to consume, and resorted to abandonment for he could not bear to see the power he yearned for. A devastating sacrifice.”

“It always comes back to cannibalism with you,” Will mutters. He can’t see Hannibal’s smile in the dark but he knows it’s there.

After a few minutes of gazing at the now-familiar map of stars, he clears his throat. His pull of affection is too strong to be distant and rude.

"Before this all, when I went looking for you, I looked up at the night sky. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same.

"I believe some of our stars will always be the same. You entered the foyer of my mind long ago and have since taken permanent residence. I am powerless to remove you from my sight."

He sighs, feeling his chest clench up almost painfully. He can only get out Hannibal's name, barely more than a whisper.

With a great deal of courage, he reaches up a hand to Hannibal's cheek, runs a finger along the sharp jut of his cheekbone, observing him carefully only to see absolutely nothing in response. He turns his body toward Hannibal, closes in, and feels his mouth go dry when he realizes he wants to press as close as possible, enough to start to slide between Hannibal and the railing of the bow. Before he can make it far, Hannibal grabs his wrist and looks at him with a desperate look. Desperate for Will not to touch him, he realizes. His entire body shakes with the effort to step away from the warm solidness of his body because Hannibal does not want him there. 

He takes one last glance of the stars and pries himself away to lay in bed with the strange feeling that he is still standing next to Hannibal, only a few inches too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's all agree to not question the accuracy of that constellation's lore, we don't do fact-checking in this house lol


	6. Newfoundland, CA; The Atlantic; Aukštaitija, LT

They dock in a busy St. John’s port in the late afternoon. They are invisible in the crowds of tourists, in scenery more interesting to look at than themselves. 

Both of their beards have grown out enough to cover their faces, and their clothes are less than pristine. They walk through the farmers market in the nearest town without a glance their way and fawn over the fresh food.

Will comes close to Hannibal near a stand. 

“I want to stay the night.”

Hannibal nods. He doesn’t have to explain the risk to Will. Without an Internet source, they are unsure of the state of their case, or if Hannibal’s Canadian credit card is being tracked here. There’s little choice. They are both wordlessly going crazy on the sailboat. They haven’t reached the point where they can move on, not yet.

They check into a moderately clean and simple motel with two double beds. They charge and open Hannibal’s tablet and log onto tattlecrime.com. They read silently through the articles together and only learn one relevant fact.

Jack Crawford has stepped down from his position in the FBI. Articles about Will and Hannibal have ceased all except for the promotion of a book about them.

Will tries to imagine what Jack is thinking right now but the distance makes it difficult. Is it possible he never received the call from Rosalyn? Perhaps Will didn’t notice all that was below her surface. Are they in the clear? Hannibal seems to ponder it alongside him and no theories are strong enough to speak aloud.

Will lays down and basks in the relief of space on his poor shoulder and the stillness of land he’s taken for granted. Hannibal orders delivery and sits at the desk to eat, facing away from Will.

Hannibal leans against the headboard in the evening and closes his eyes. A drunk man is singing outside of their window, the sound wavering but never ceasing the serenade of the awkward space of the motel room. Will lays on the parallel bed with his back turned so he can stare at the curtained windows and think about where they need to go from here. 

He hasn’t tried to touch Hannibal since that night under the stars, when he walked away with a surprisingly intense feeling of shame and embarrassment. He doesn’t recall initiating their physical contact like that before, let alone after reading the situation so entirely wrong. It would be too much credit to say he even attempted to read the situation, rather than barrelling past the lines with eyes closed. It was all to take what is no longer repressed inside of him, what has slipped past the seal and become impossible to contain, oozing through his fingertips as he tries to push it down. It’s not much that he’s asking for, it isn’t even the warmth of Hannibal or the sureness of his hands that he craves, it’s the affirmation within a show of affection that Will needs confirmation of, but isn’t receiving.

It’s rather terrifying to be in Hannibal’s presence without the show of affection anymore. There is no telling what he’s capable of when the anger surpasses the love or if he’s merely grown tired of Will. Killed or left, there is no difference anymore. In the end, he’ll need to decide to give up or leave for good, and he isn’t ready for that decision.

Bottles clink along the ground outside. The drunk man yells at strangers and talks to others that may or may not even be there. A woman he once loved, Will guesses. Or perhaps his mother. The later it grows in the night, the less real people he has to talk to, and the sorrowful singing drones on, the same over and over again, grating against Will’s pounding headache.

Will turns over onto his back and looks at Hannibal. 

“It’s quite rude, isn’t it?”

Hannibal looks up at him with interest. Will doesn't stop to think for a moment more.

“People are trying to sleep. It isn’t even good singing,” Will says.

Hannibal watches him get out of bed and find a hunting knife in their luggage. He pulls out a dark coat and throws it on along with some leather gloves. Hannibal stands and follows him quickly without a word. Will is already out the door as Hannibal is hurrying to lock it behind them.

“Hey, bud,” Will says. He makes sure his voice is low. “Can I buy you a drink? There are people trying to sleep here.”

The man cackles joyously. It still sounds bitter somehow. Sad. Will gets a hand on his shoulder and leads him along the dark streets. He can sense Hannibal following closely behind, though his steps are nearly silent. 

They walk for a few minutes and the man seems to think Will is an old friend. He’s so intoxicated that Will doesn’t worry much about his own act. He plays along weakly, and at the sight of a dark alley, he turns. The town is small, touristy. This is a risk.

“You—you’re a good man, yenno that? Don’t meet many...” the man slurs. Will’s nostrils fill with a sharp, pungent smell.

“I don’t know what that means. To be a good man,” Will says.

“Tha’s not the way I mean.”

“No? How do you mean?”

“I wish I could—” A burp. “—hold myself so sure.”

The man mumbles for a moment and then replies as if they’re having a different conversation. Will sighs. There’s no point in dragging this out, his head is still pounding and his hands shaking. He stabs the knife near the centre of the man’s torso, where he imagines his liver may be, and his heart begins to steady out like an echo growing distant in his mind.

He hears Hannibal breathing behind him. Even as the man cries out in a weak grunt and grabs his arm for support, what he focuses on is that presence that he’s holding onto desperately. He pulls out the knife and sticks it in again, listening to the man sob. It feels as much sacrifice from Will, this pain he is feeling. He’s giving this to Hannibal, asking for forgiveness and trust again.

He’s pulled out of his concentration by another noise. A “hey!” followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. He pulls out the knife and stops holding the man up so he collapses without another word. He turns to see three men running down the alley toward them. He can't believe he didn't see them in the distance. He wonders if Hannibal knew. They are young and wobbly, Will notices. Not drunks, but men out drinking. Still, more than Will had bargained for.

“What the hell are you guys doing with him?” one man demands.

“Yeah, fuck, he need the hospital?”

They get closer and Will doesn’t bother to hide the knife. He twists it so it reflects the light of the moonlight. Hannibal moves to stand next to him and they face the men, one weapon between them. The men pause, take it in.

He looks at Hannibal and Hannibal looks back in his eyes. The men start yelling and cursing and pointing at the dead body behind Will’s foot, but Will only feels serene as he finally reaches a point past the surface of Hannibal’s iris. He knows exactly what Hannibal is thinking when they walk forward, fast.

They cross paths before they meet the men with their fists up. Will lunges with the knife but has to sidestep to avoid a punch. It gives him the opportunity to stick the knife in and out of the man’s side, a clean slice and likely no organs hit, before jumping a couple of feet away and hearing his scream. He turns back in time to see the man turning on him with rage in his eyes before he clambers forward and plunges it in his chest right over the heart as a fist smacks him hard on the temple. 

Close to his ear, he hears a loud _crack_ that he recognizes as a neck breaking. He pulls out the knife and looks up to see the third friend swing a beer bottle at Hannibal. Hannibal’s hands are still holding onto the other man’s head so he doesn’t manage to block the swing before he falls backward onto the ground. It isn’t a particularly hard fall and Will can see that he could get up easily, and he nearly does, but then he stops and looks toward Will.

Will steps forward and brings the knife around so he can slice it through the third and final man’s neck from behind. The blood sprays out and for a moment it’s raining down on Hannibal, who takes it without even a blink. It paints him black in the moonlight, ruins his clothes, covers him whole. It feels significant to now know what it truly feels like to slit someone’s throat, the glide of that sensitive skin, to see it from this perspective. It enhances his imagination of things he’s thought of many times before. 

He drops the body to the side and steps over it toward Hannibal. He takes a brief look around at the pile of bodies he stands in. It was almost too easy, not enough. Without breaking eye contact, Hannibal lifts up onto his elbow and reaches out a hand for Will to pull him up.

Will steps forward instead and points the knife straight into Hannibal’s throat. He keeps moving upon him so Hannibal has to lay back on the ground before it slides through his skin. Will holds it just under his chin and comes closer, and closer, crawling over him until he sits straddling Hannibal’s hips. He leans in further until the knife is fit perfectly between his chest and Hannibal’s throat, their noses only inches away. 

His hand shakes like it always does but his movements feel sure. Hannibal doesn’t look worried in the least bit. He looks deeply focused. Will walks through the hallways in his mind and into his rooms, and sees it all. 

He pulls the knife out from between them and throws it to the side. He leans forward until their foreheads touch and has to breathe in deeply to compose himself. It’s that feeling from the night on the cliff and it’s making him absolutely twitch with want. Now he can feel the way it’s always beneath his skin, waiting to come out. Hannibal is waiting, open, following Will and they are on the exact same page again, _finally_.

Will jolts when he hears other voices from the same direction as the men came from. A woman yells _“Hello! Where the hell are they now?”_ Other voices laugh and jest as they search for their friends. 

They can’t be caught yet. There’s so much left to do together and Will knows in that moment he would murder everyone in his way. But he doesn’t want to. Four innocent men were enough.

Will is standing in a second and pulling up Hannibal by his hands. He holds on with a tight grip and pulls them in the opposite direction. They come out to a brightly lit road and he realizes that Hannibal has blood poured all over him. Will pulls him rapidly across the street and hears the blaring horn of a car they’ve cut off before he can pull Hannibal into the next alley. He gets them behind a dumpster and looks him up and down with wide eyes.

“Will, breathe,” Hannibal says, calm and grounding.

Will reaches forward and starts to push Hannibal’s blazer over his shoulder. Hannibal catches on quickly and begins to pull it off by his sleeves while Will gets his hand in the collar of his white-turned-red dress shirt and pulls until the buttons pop off right at him. Hannibal pulls off all of the clothing on his top half and lets them fall to the ground. Will rips his own jacket off, ignoring the protest in his shoulder, and shoves it at Hannibal to help him put it on and zip it up. It’s too small but not particularly noticeable. The bloody clothes are left on the ground. He stares helplessly at the stained trousers, but they’re dark enough to not be particularly noticeable.

They move through the alley and two blocks over before they begin walking down the street. Will takes the sleeve of his shirt and wipes at the sweat pouring down from his hairline.

When they turn in the direction of their motel, they see the group of friends that are calling for the men they assumedly just murdered. Shone in the streetlight, it would be too suspicious to turn and leave.

“Hey!” a woman calls. Will steadies his expression and looks up. He walks forward until they are meeting the young adults directly between the halos of yellow light down the sidewalk.

“You guys pass some dudes anywhere here? Three tall guys, probably smelling like shit whiskey,” she says. Lighthearted. They clearly aren’t too worried. Who would be? Three strong men could usually put up a good fight.

Both him and Hannibal shake their heads. Will refrains from the urge to check for blood splatters all over Hannibal.

“I’m sorry, would you like to borrow my phone to call them?” Hannibal asks. He exaggerates his accent. Will knows he doesn’t actually have a cellphone on him and waits anxiously for the reply.

“No, no… they’re not answering. Always such shit heads. Thanks, anyway.” 

Another woman pipes up. “Hey, you got something..?” She wipes at her own cheek but points at Hannibal’s face.

He laughs gleefully and rubs at a splatter of blood on his jaw. “It seems the barbeque chicken wings beat me this time,” he says.

“O’Reilly’s?” she asks excitedly.

“Good guess!” Hannibal says, impressed.

“Fuck, where else, right? Didn’t see you guys there, we’ve been hoppin’ around, though.”

They talk back and forth about bars and Hannibal improvises perfectly, provides some information that Will reckons could be completely made up. Will smiles and nods until his cheeks hurt and they walk away from carefree laughter. 

Will can barely breathe, but the strangers ate it up easily. They walk normally for a long way in silence and then pick up speed on the road back to their motel. Will pushes Hannibal inside and then leans against the door to breathe rapidly. 

“Will.”

Hannibal steps closer and puts his hands on either side of Will’s shoulders. He breathes in and out and Will tries to copy the slow speed at which Hannibal is breathing. He squeezes his shoulders on every inhale and loosens on every exhale. Will keeps twitching in adrenaline but soon he is further away from the panic attack than he was to begin with.

“We need to go,” Will says.

“It is possible the police will be out soon. We have a long way to go to the boat, and a lot of luggage, it is rather suspicious. We also need more food before crossing the Atlantic.”

Will stares at him.

“I will follow you,” Hannibal adds on.

“I want to go now. We will stay on the boat until daybreak and I will get food then.”  
  
Hannibal nods. He hesitates, but then turns briskly and steps into the bathroom to clean.

Will packs their things rapidly and calls a taxi and Hannibal emerges blood-free and shirtless. Will steps back from their bag of clothes to allow Hannibal to get dressed. They walk out sharing a heavy look.

It isn’t until hours later, not having slept or relaxed the slightest, they have new piles of food and supplies in storage and are pulling away from the shore that they turn to each other and share pleased smiles.

-

Will’s shoulder is hurting worse, whether from the fight or from taking off his jacket too fast. He hopes it’s the former because the latter is a lot less impressive. He milks his pain, moving his shoulder in small circles when Hannibal is watching him out under the sun as they sail east.

When Hannibal comes behind him, Will doesn’t protest. He holds onto the side of the boat with a strong grip and Hannibal puts his hands on his shoulders. First, he rubs his hands over his skin, warming him up, then begins pressing his fingers into his trapezius muscle repeatedly. He squeezes the back of Will’s neck and begins to guide Will’s shoulder in rolling motions, then he continues to massage the muscles around it.

Hannibal can’t see his face so Will lets his eyes flutter closed as the strong hands move over him, Hannibal’s heat so close behind him. He loses track of how long Hannibal rubs his thumbs into Will’s tight muscles without complaint, but still mourns it when he finishes. 

Then, he begins doing it every day, walking behind him wordlessly in the morning and evening like clockwork, working through the tenseness and the pain until Will can almost sleep through a night comfortably.

Hannibal stays with him during the day, and for a few hours in the night, weather permitting, they sleep at the same time for a few hours. Breathing in sync only a few feet apart on the tiny cots to the rocking motion of the ocean. Will wishes he had Hannibal’s hands on him in those moments, but it is comforting to feel the vicinity. He barely dreams.

Will knows he broke Hannibal's barriers tooth and nail, after actions that he could barely bounce back from in the first place. Will is no vigilante, he is a man who enjoys the kill. Four dead bodies are now the sacrifice to show Hannibal that he wants the same things, and at the moment, compared to the fate of an unhappy Hannibal, he finds that he doesn’t care that they were innocent.

Will understands now that words aren’t enough between them. Not only are they not enough, they aren’t necessary. It has taken until now to sync in a familiar but novel way. It is easier to ignore the past heartbreak even if it lingers beneath the surface. All Will needs is Hannibal’s hands on his shoulders and his presence inches away. They move together like it’s a dance, working on the ship and cooking without sharing instructions, and staring into each other's eyes to say the rest. Much awaits them in Europe. For now, they coexist, they inch closer. They recite memorized parts of novels and plays in the absence of books and get lost in the ideas of everything, having been given this liminal space between countries, between need, to drift under the stars in safety and companionship.

Will knows, though it hurts to think about, that their contradictions haven’t been fully crossed. He doesn’t need to worry about it at this moment, though, in this free time isolated from the world, their purgatory to reflect and wait. All of his attention goes effortlessly to Hannibal, to make a home in his mind and curl up at his metaphorical fireplace.

Weeks drift by in the beauty of sunsets and brushing shoulders and France is closing in on them. 

Will pulls his razor out of his bag. It’s rusted and dirty with use and time, and he forgot to buy a new one. Hannibal touches his wrist and says, “Will you let me?”

It’s for the sake of their disguise, he tells himself as Hannibal begins to prepare. 

Hannibal stands in the kitchen and sharpens a knife with sure strokes. Will peers upon a fantasy and smirks at the thought. Hannibal returns his gaze and steps closer.

He takes a towel dipped in recently boiled water and presses it to Will’s face. He tries not to wince at the heat, but his eyes do water. Hannibal holds it firmly and then drops the towel to the side.

“You must stay still and trust me,” Hannibal says. Will smiles in place of a joke. Hannibal can imagine it.

Hannibal grabs him just below his jaw and leans in. The knife skims against the top of his cheek with the lightest touch, but his skin burns with slight irritation after the hair falls to the floor.

They aren’t usually facing each other this closely so Will takes advantage of the situation to stare around Hannibal’s face. Every pore, every wrinkle, every curve of his face. Hannibal hesitates with the blade for a moment. 

“Do you genuinely believe I am planning your death?” Hannibal asks. Will blinks back into reality, but he isn’t particularly surprised at the fast-moving manner of Hannibal’s thoughts. He’s the same, jumping from branch to branch in his own mind.

“What, right now?” he jokes, looking down at the knife close to his face. Hannibal resumes shaving his scraggly beard.

“You said ‘kill me now, finish the job’, implying it was an inevitability,” Hannibal says. Will thinks back to his outburst in Cuba. It seems like it happened a lifetime ago already, he wonders how long Hannibal has been stewing over the thought. He thinks for a moment while Hannibal brushes some hair off his face and resumes with the knife.

“It’s not exactly a stretch.”

“Oh?”

“Your plan was always to eat Bedelia when you left with her instead of me, was it not?” 

“You think she was an equal replacement?”

“No. You expected more from me.”

“Exactly. To say she was my second choice implies much too generous regard of her.” Will feels a flash of satisfaction at that, though his heart still hurts to think of her where he should have been. He _would_ have been better.

Will hesitates responding. He doesn’t particularly want to disclose that he wants Hannibal to desire to consume him in the same way Will does back. Will hasn’t bothered to hide his proclivities, but Hannibal is often far vaguer.

“Perhaps if I become boring,” Will says. “You’d go to measures to make it interesting again.”

“Hm.”

“Not going to confirm or deny?”

“It would be feeble to answer diminutively about the future. I am inclined to deny any plan.”

“Care to share specifics?” Will tilts his head up so Hannibal can run the blade down his neck. Hannibal’s hand moves to grip his chin gently.

“If you were to betray me cruelly, it may be the only way I could move on from you.”

“Do you ever wish you could, without consequences?”

“An impossible hypothetical like that seems useless to consider.”

“Humour me.”

Hannibal opens his mouth and then hesitates. Will looks down again to silently record the rare look of uncertainty.

“Yes,” Hannibal says.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I sometimes fantasize about consuming you, displaying you, just as I know you do for me as well. I receive less satisfaction out of such ideas now.”

Will furrows his eyebrows. “Why?

“The alternative is an enhanced and elongated version of consumption, one that is mutual and reciprocally beneficial and altogether more nourishing.”

Will stays quiet as he runs over the words in his mind. Then, just above his Adam’s apple, he feels a stinging prick that makes him suck in air through his teeth.

“You did that on purpose,” Will mutters. He imagines the blood rising to the surface of his own neck. He tilts his chin up more.

He stays still when Hannibal’s head dips down and he feels the unmistakable softness of lips against the top of his throat. He can’t breathe. Hannibal pulls back and the centre of his lips are stained with blood. Will’s blood. A tongue skirts out of his mouth to clean the stain. And then he wipes the knife on the towel and continues to shave the rest of his face.

He can only stare ahead dumbly. His eyelids feel heavy as he stares at Hannibal. He appears to be unbothered, but Will can feel the vibrations below. He’s suddenly overly aware of the few inches between them, like even the air is unstable.

It is only when Hannibal breathes in and sways on the spot with closed eyes that Will realizes it’s his own arousal he’s smelling. It is difficult to focus his heavy eyes but he can see that Hannibal is overwhelmed. It is a fascinating view but as the seconds drag by without making a move, Hannibal finally blinks out of it and the composure is returned, all except for a flush along his throat. 

Will, suddenly, wants to be the only one left in the world that Hannibal has had such thoughts toward. It is a vehement, intense desire that shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but this is the same person who sat across from him in that dim office promising to be his paddle, existing next to him as a grounding presence at crime scenes, strapped across the table as side-by-side prisoners, across the table during breakfast, touching him on the edge of a cliff before sunset. The vastness of their influence travelling further and further, spiralling out of Will’s control before he can take it all in, flashes of memories so different from the ones before but still shockingly familiar. 

Hannibal finishes and wipes off Will’s chin and the spell is broken. Will lets out a breath he’s been holding and suddenly wishes there was slightly more privacy on this boat to sort out his frustration himself. At the same time, he has the hope that there will never be privacy between them again. 

A hand rests on his smooth jaw and Will gets sucked back into the tension between them.

“I think it’s absurd that you believe I would genuinely end your life and not the other way around if we are discussing probabilities. Your fantasies encompass you, you obsess over them, and you have a myriad of complicated motives and a drive for the fight.”

“What are your motives?” Will asks.

Hannibal strokes his thumb across Will’s ear. He isn’t getting an answer.

When Hannibal lets go, Will heads to the upper deck while Hannibal shaves his own face. He needs air. He stares out at the rolling waves and tries to imagine this feeling, this place where he has no one else to answer to.

If this is his fate ahead of him, it is a beautiful one. What could he have done to deserve this? He hasn’t considered God being real in so much seriousness until he has begun to actively defy the Christian morals he grew up with. He questions their validity, for there’s a righteousness to this path he sees. There’s a beauty he sees reserved in poetry and literature, one he never thought could be felt by him. A desire he could never have predicted.

Hannibal emerges after a great deal of time when land is visible ahead.

“Where do you want to go first, Will?”

“Your home,” Will blurts out.

He worries it was the wrong thing to suggest when the silence drags on.

“You have already gone,” Hannibals says.

“Alone.”

“We will go,” Hannibal says. Will watches him, detecting the emotions beneath. He trusts Hannibal to deny him if he needs to, though, and there’s something he’d really like to show Hannibal.

Things will grow deeper as they move on in their journey. Will hopes the ease will stay, at least for a while. He hopes that time will stretch on endlessly for him now that he’s captured it. They stare at the glint of land in the distance and Hannibal sets a steady hand on the back of his neck, a touch that feels almost threatening.

-

Hannibal sells their boat immediately upon reaching the shore and discusses directions with the locals. Will walks along the pier and lets this transition wash over him.

Most of the travelling he’s done in his life consisted of following Hannibal to Europe. He managed to find beauty in those places but it was solely out of desperation, always searching and forcing himself to see. 

Hannibal’s sweet-talking, bullshitting voice gets quieter the further he walks and yet he still feels calm because he knows any second now, Hannibal will follow him. This period will be good for them, he can feel it.

The day goes by in a blur. Purchasing cell phones, booking a flight, buying clean outfits and somehow getting a table at a high-end French restaurant. Will feels strange to have none of his own money, but asking for a loan or getting a job feels stranger. He is being swept along a tide of his fate and Hannibal’s expectations.

He’s running on pure anticipation and desire, a late-night plane ride and a short train, and as the day breaks and Hannibal asks him if he’d like to get a hotel, Will says no.

They take a car to Castle Lecter. The fall air bites at his chin so he pulls the scarf that Hannibal bought him closer to his mouth. He’s stuck between wanting to observe the grounds with all of his new knowledge and gauge the reaction from Hannibal.

Barriers are up. Will doesn’t have the heart to tear them down. They walk further and further through the grounds until they reach the rusted front doors, unmanaged weeds shooting their way up the siding. 

Will stops instinctively but isn’t aware of knowing Hannibal began to cry until he sees the wetness. He is silent, but his mouth twists just slightly. Will looks away and waits.

It is deafeningly still. The first time he came here there were still tortured souls taking residence, practically against their wills. They are gone and only the dead remain, but Will doesn’t feel them either. He feels as though he should sense the presence of everyone who has been here before, the physical reminders of life are everywhere, and yet there is nothing truly left. Hannibal’s memories feel far away this time around.

Hannibal’s voice is steady when he speaks again, after a period of time Will couldn’t even guess. Everything continues to stand still.

“It is pointless to dwell and regret, it holds a person in place. To live in a time of pain is a form of self-harm while moving forward is a survival tactic. And yet—”

Hannibal breaks off abruptly and Will waits through a few more moments of silence.

“I did not believe I could ever return. It is one thing to murder a memory in your mind. Still a ghost around the corner. It is another thing to see physical evidence that the ghost is gone and the room is truly empty. All forgotten. I didn’t expect the gift of walking into the crypt to find nothing there, and now I don’t need to look over my shoulder or listen through the walls. I know it is empty. A beautiful thing to step back and see life as a whole, it’s tail end slipping away as the snake keeps snatching on an unimaginable path.” 

There are still tears creating a gloss on Hannibal’s face when he smiles, but his lips turn back down just as quickly. It isn’t a content turn of his lips. Will’s breath catches.

“I hadn’t meant to let her go like I have.” Hannibal puts his hand onto the back of Will’s neck again and Will makes an effort not to make a sound, just lets himself be guided until he’s facing Hannibal.

“You weren’t supposed to take her place. Or take over my world. You, so frustratingly unpredictable in your indecision, a terrifying prospect to be given control." He tilts his head. "Do I resent you?” 

Hannibal seems to be asking himself and not Will, but he tightens his grip in a way that nears pain, a threat. Will twitches and huffs and grabs Hannibal’s wrist.

“Hannibal…” he says in a warning tone. “We’ll just leave if it’s too much. You didn’t have to say yes.”

“You’ve erased a great deal of my world. You have undertaken a cleansing here.”

Will grunts at his grip on the base of his skull. “And you mine.”

Hannibal lets go abruptly. He quickly looks calmer. He sighs, then replaces his hand with a light caress down Will’s neck, full of affection and care.

“Your mask is fading,” Will says.

“I suppose it is. Difficult not to be honest.”

“When the strongest of your senses congregate,” Will finishes for him. Hannibal’s thumb continues to stroke the back of his neck almost compulsively, like he’s trying not to do anything else.

“When I am faced with what is overwhelming,” Hannibal confirms.

“Your truth is through pain. Searing, controlled pain. It began here but didn’t come from here.”

Will feels nails scratch down the back of his neck and shivers. 

“More than pain,” Hannibal says. 

“Or complements of it,” Will says. 

Hannibal gives him a piercing look. 

“Don’t hate me for taking what you have given me and learning from it,” Will says.

“It is far from hate. I only ask you to be respectful in the halls of my mind, but you do struggle with respect.”

“Forgive me if I can’t cherish every piece of you,” Will snaps, but the sadness of Hannibal’s face makes him question his attitude, in a time when he can feel the vulnerability in front of him, as though he could stick a hand right through Hannibal’s gut.

“I suppose we both have our clashes.”

“I cherish a great deal of you,” Will says.

Hannibal observes him before saying, “And I, you.”

They stare at each other for a moment and Will begins to notice the sharp chill of the air but doesn’t move until Hannibal finally looks away.

He begins to walk forward when Will grabs his arm.

He doesn’t know why he feels the need to warn Hannibal about what is on the other side of the door, especially now when tensions are particularly high. His own face heats and he realizes he’s anticipating Hannibal’s reaction, hoping he approves.

Will gulps. 

Hannibal nods once. He knows. And Will can’t even find it in him to be surprised. Will follows a step behind him into the dusty foyer and Hannibal walks in the right direction.

It’s been a long time, so Will isn’t surprised to see bones instead of flesh and barely a skeleton of the wings it once was. Nonetheless, he can see what it once was. Staring over Hannibal’s shoulder, he can see the snails in the shifting reflection of the glass and he knows Hannibal can as well.

Time slows down when Hannibal turns to face him. Will almost can’t bear to look back. Hannibal is proud. He’s _more_ than that, practically vibrating with emotion. Whether they are good or bad emotions doesn't seem to make any difference anymore.

Hannibal steps closer slowly but surely, closing the distance between them. His lips press to Will’s so gently that he might not believe it had ever happened if he wasn’t staring at Hannibal pressed against him. His cold-numb lips tingle like a sting and then Hannibal pulls back with glassy eyes that make Will’s gut absolutely ache _._

Hannibal steps back and walks on, brushing past Will’s shoulder, leaving him frozen in the room, staring at the art he created with every ounce of love for Hannibal once upon a time. His steps are so silent that the whole room feels lonely again.

-

For once, time has stopped. He doesn’t feel any rush to find Hannibal again, he sits with the feeling. Doesn’t even think, just lets it wash over him.

He walks with certainty when he finally does move. Up the stairs and down a hallway, following footprints in the dust. He walks into what must have been Hannibal’s bedroom. It is rather plain, not an indication of who he is now, but Will still looks curiously at his past. Only for a second before returning his eyes to Hannibal.

Hannibal is staring upon his childhood bed but turns and waits.

With a hand on his shoulder, Will guides Hannibal to sit on the bed and then steps between his legs. Hannibal looks up at him with a tilted chin and wide pupils.

Will grabs either side of his face, taking a moment to caress his fingers over his cheeks, and leans down to press their lips together just as soft as before. He opens his mouth and Hannibal meets him exactly where he is. Will snakes his arms around Hannibal’s neck and trembles as he squeezes tightly, feeling urges that threaten to break his composure completely. 

He’s beginning to fumble with the top buttons of Hannibal’s shirt when he’s gently pushed away.

They break apart and Will feels a bit shocked to see the image of Hannibal so close to him, a reminder of this reality. He gulps and licks his lips instinctively. 

Hannibal looks around his face. “I can spend all the time in the world trying to understand the complexity of your emotions and motivations, discerning the reasons for your actions, and yet the reality will always leave me enamoured even if I am right.”

Will holds back a scoff because he recognizes the weight of Hannibal’s words. He has no desire for words right now, though. He leans in again and Hannibal stops him when he’s only a couple inches away.

“But when I imagine this moment, I imagine it somewhere beautiful and premeditated. I understand I started it, but I couldn’t help it in the face of the beauty you left. Unfortunately, the beauty does not extend to this room,” Hannibal says, slightly amused. 

Will pauses and lifts one eyebrow. “You don’t want to sleep with me here because this place is ugly?”

Hannibal smiles. 

“Of course,” Will mutters with annoyance. He sways backward and flops down on the bed next to Hannibal where dust immediately springs up and clouds around him. He coughs once and squints his eyes.

“And unclean,” Hannibal adds on.

Will pushes himself up with a grimace and starts to wipe off the dust bunnies now flattened to his coat and his hair. Hannibal helps, a soft hand wiping down Will’s back. Will glares at the wall across from them and he doesn’t need to turn to see the satisfied smirk on Hannibal’s face. 

For once he’d like to see Hannibal truly lose some of that self-control and poise, to get out of his head. For Will to be something more of a pet for him to manipulate and mould and observe. The love may be real but Hannibal will never let go of his compulsive need to be one step ahead and _right._ The cherry on top is how much Hannibal loves to see him react.

Hannibal’s hand slows and strokes his hair tenderly. He leans in close and breathes in, smelling Will’s arousal and probably some less pleasant aromas in the room. 

“Don’t mistake my refusal for—”

“Don’t placate me, I know.” Will tries not to roll his eyes. He ought to act at ease to preserve his dignity, he thinks distantly 

“It has never been in my best interest to let you into how alluring you are to me. Relinquishing self-control is often a compelling idea in recent times,” Hannibal says. 

Will smirks bitterly. But then the admission clicks in his head. It’s all about the mind games. Surely Hannibal is disclosing such a thing to persuade certain actions, or just to garner a more interesting reaction. Perhaps he wants to see Will fight for it, beg even. Perhaps he wants to make Will energized and determined only to wag his finger again and see him mope. Everything is calculated and Will doesn’t want to fall a step behind.

The fact remains that Will wants to kiss him again, take it all now that he has the brief memory of Hannibal’s lips under his skin. He pulls Hannibal’s face toward him and leans in slowly. Hannibal stays passive but obliging when Will licks into his mouth. He can feel the satisfied stretch of his lip.

He wants to wipe it off his face so he kisses Hannibal harder and digs his nails into the back of his neck. He nips hard at his lip and makes a near-growling noise until Hannibal’s smile does fall and he breathes heavier. Will feels Hannibal’s body grow pliant under him and he knows that Hannibal is testing him, seeing how far he will go before truly responding.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, dragging their lips together as he speaks. Hannibal makes a nearly imperceptible humming noise under him and his hands go on Will’s hips. Will reckons Hannibal would give in if Will gave him enough. It seems like Will _does_ have a considerable effect on him, even if Hannibal is willingly indulging, Will wonders how far it could go. 

He wonders if he’s milking it too much, or if playing out another deception will bite him in the ass. He's only being deceptive because he's caught Hannibal in the same act. It isn’t hard to inject emotion into his voice and every touch when he’s genuinely starting to shake with want. He refuses to let himself be pulled under though the stream is calling to him, begging him to just let go and take whatever is given to him. This isn’t the right moment for them, he knows that as well.

“Please,” he whispers, exaggeratedly desperate.

He grunts in surprise when Hannibal flips him onto his back and settles down in the same motion so he’s pressed into the lumpy mattress. He’s shocked out of thought knowing that Hannibal fell for his acting, that Will continues to have the ability to deceive him. Hannibal kisses harder than before, all-consuming and Will unintentionally lets out a noise against him and realizes how far deep he’s getting into this moment with their bodies pressed together.

With a great deal of both emotional and physical strength, he pushes against Hannibal’s chest until he finally stops kissing Will with a gasp. He stares for a moment and everything in his body is begging him to just give in, but he’s suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that this isn't the right moment, not here.

Will pats his shoulder until Hannibal rolls halfway off. He enjoys the fleeting and impossibly rare moment of seeing Hannibal dazed and confused. 

Will scrunches up his face in an exaggerated motion of regret and tries not to smile too much.

“Bit dusty for this,” he says, waving his hand through the flecks floating in the room, visible by white sunlight streaming across the room. He rolls out from under Hannibal and stands up to untwist his clothes. “And not a very pretty room, you know.”

He walks away, which feels less victorious while he’s sporting a hard-on, but at the last minute looks over his shoulder to see an expression on Hannibal’s face that is equal parts bitter and impressed. 


	7. Florence, IT

There’s a flash of movement out the window of Count Lecter. He’s standing alone, the prisoner twinkling in the breeze behind him. His eyes don’t focus on the woods surrounding the property fast enough to discern, but a gut feeling deep inside makes him wonder if he knows who is following them. He thought he’d made up a story to Rosalyn, but perhaps there was truth beneath his words. Someone still watching over Hannibal and wary of his motivations. Then, he hears footsteps behind him, Hannibal’s presence like a thousand fireflies silhouetting his back.

He wakes up and he’s on a plane instead. He wipes the drool off his chin as inconspicuously as he can but Hannibal’s attention is already on him, informing him of their arrival.

Will recognizes his surroundings as they take a car to an address of Hannibal’s. He gives Hannibal a tilted gaze which Hannibal pretends to not see. He’s relieved to see that they aren’t at the exact same apartment that he shared with Bedelia, but it’s close.

If Hannibal isn’t going to say anything, he isn’t either. 

The apartment is massive and grand, foundation aged but the furniture being uncovered one by one beneath dusty white sheets indicates a great deal of modern class. The room reveals itself, a seating area, a statue, a harpsichord, multiple full bookshelves already, even a workstation just for Will. The air fills with swirls of dust and Will coughs. It’s home. 

“The story continues,” Will says. Hannibal smiles.

They change the sheets in the master bedroom, dust and sweep every surface and fill the dressers with their few belongings, then spend the rest of the evening cleaning the kitchen until Will is essentially a walking zombie.

Hannibal strokes a finger down the back of his neck. Will leans into it instinctively and Hannibal is closer than he’d realized, whispering right in his ear before walking off.

“There will be time to clean later. Let’s sleep.”

Will kills time for a few minutes more before shutting himself in the ensuite bathroom without a glance at the bed. They didn’t clean the guest bedroom, though Will considered it intermittently throughout the day. 

He looks in the mirror for a moment, a habit he usually avoids. 

He runs through the likely possibilities of what will happen when he crawls under the covers next to Hannibal. They slept across from each other for weeks, but without the solid bridge between their bodies. It may be cleanly and beautiful here, but there’s more to it. Hannibal wants a premeditated moment, something grand and _more._ They won’t have sex tonight, or tomorrow, or the next night, Will realizes. 

He thought he’d be disappointed, but perhaps he’s acquiring the gift of patience because he wants the same thing. He can’t recall ever feeling bothered about sex being meaningful.

Hannibal is leaning against the headboard reading. He doesn’t look up as Will crawls under the covers and lays still as a board, staring at the ceiling. He hears the book close and the lamp sheds the room in darkness save for the moonlight. He waits for a moment as Hannibal stills and his eyes adjust. The space between them feels like miles. Hannibal is only quiet for a moment more.

“Would you like to sleep apart or touching?” he asks.

“Doctor Lecter asking me to cuddle?” Will jokes. He finds Hannibal’s stilted way of asking to be endearing.

“I’m not sure what to think about you finding that amusing.”

Will knows he can’t hide behind humour as they explore their intimacy, assuming that’s what’s to come. He will have to hand over sensitive pieces of himself, ask for what he wants. 

“Turn over,” Will says eventually. He can’t handle Hannibal breathing down his neck or looking at his face.

Hannibal goes easy and Will scoots up behind him. He hesitates but gives in quickly and puts an arm around Hannibal. He fits himself until he’s comfortable, except for his other arm. Usually, the women he slept next to were light enough to shift and configure in his arms but he can feel how solid and full Hannibal is in contrast. Even in the more dominant position, he feels small.

Though a rare occurrence next to Hannibal, he’s beginning to resent his own awkwardness and visibly cringing to the back of Hannibal’s neck until Hannibal finally lifts and pulls Will’s other arm under his neck himself. Will hugs him properly and lets his muscles relax. A nice smell fills his nose as he breathes in deeply.

“Goodnight, Will.”

-

Dry skin and sore knees accompany him for a few days while they clean the entire apartment but nonetheless, his energy is increasing by the day, something of a mix between having space to move around in and a real, ergonomic bed. Fewer nightmares as well, though they never truly leave. Hannibal is nice enough not to mention it when he wakes them both up with his twitching.

Will is still trying out that thing called patience. He’s trying to trust that _time_ won’t rip anything else away from him. 

They haven’t so much as shared any further kisses but the knowledge hangs in the air at each meeting of their eyes over the dinner table, in all the lengths of silence where Will reflects. He wonders if Hannibal is thinking about it as much, and really, he knows the answer. 

Will is scrubbing grout and Hannibal polishing silverware when there are three quick knocks on the door. Hannibal straightens up his clothes quickly and opens the door with a smile.

Will listens to the squabble of Italian that he can deduce easily enough as a ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ visit. He sincerely hopes this man isn’t _too_ friendly. He isn’t any more inclined to being sociable and he doesn’t care enough to fake it anymore.

Nonetheless, he waits to be introduced so he can at least wave. The friendlier he is, the less likely he is to be reported for suspicious activity. Or so that’s how it seems to go with Hannibal. 

He continues to wait for his cue, long enough to see a flash of confusion on the man’s face. Eyes darting between the two of them. Will only wonders for a moment if he’s observing an unfamiliar cultural gesture but the twisting look of disgust leaves no question, nor does the look up and down his body kneeling on the floor. The man is gone after one last abrupt comment.

The cordial smile on Hannibal’s face doesn’t waver. Not even when he closes the door. Will doesn’t have to ask for a translation, he knows what kind of an assumption their neighbour made. He smiles back.

-

It’s Will’s idea, one that he insists on with vigour. He’s shown the plastic jumpsuits but quickly shuts down the idea of wearing a goddamn murder suit because he doesn’t want to risk a public encounter, not yet. 

He’s still a fisherman at heart, anyway.

They find two envelopes. Hannibal writes their address on one and Will watches the spread of the ink, the captivating flair of his calligraphy. Will writes their address on a different envelope, scrawling it quickly and messy. They write fabricated return addresses and stamp each envelope. They stick self-written letters inside and seal it up. Hannibal writes a poem and Will writes a letter that is essentially just the plot to The Great Gatsby.

Will wiggles a small knife into the lock of their neighbour's mailbox until he hears the click. He sticks their fake letters inside and works to lock it up again, careful to not leave any scratches.

The knocks come at 6 pm the very next day to their newly cleaned and impeccable apartment. They are tired from cleaning and anticipating their newfound freedom but most of all, they’re hungry.

“Ah, Eduardo!” Hannibal says, feigning surprise. They exchange a few words in Italian and Eduardo holds up their faux letters to return.

Hannibal is thanking him profusely and beckoning the man inside. He puts up a respectable protest until it is far too awkward to keep refusing. If Will didn’t know Hannibal as well as he does he, too, would believe he was excessively friendly.

Hannibal blathers incoherently as he pours Eduardo a couple of fingers of their expensive whisky. The replies are short, bitter. Not a bad last drink, Will thinks, nodding reflectively to the comments he doesn’t understand.

The man says something to Will, leaning against the nearest wall, doing little to appear cordial.

“No Italian.” Will shrugs. The man scoffs.

“Eduardo was just telling me about his long day. He’s a lawyer.”

“Oh. Criminal?” Will asks.

Hannibal translates and listens to Eduardo’s reply.

“Divorce,” Hannibal says. 

“Ah. Boring.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says.

Eduardo looks wistfully in the direction of the front door. Will wonders if their demeanour is intimidating or if it’s simply his homophobic discomfort. His skin is tan and waxy, his eyes tired. It’s no surprise that Will can feel the bitterness deep inside of him. A wholehearted resentment of life. They’re practically doing him a favour tonight, a man who won’t be missed, not even by himself. 

One last swig of whiskey and the man is walking away on his own terms. The heat in his eyes tells Will that his final comment is a particularly rude and defiant one. 

Will looks at Hannibal to find Hannibal staring at him, expectant. He likes to watch, this Will is learning quickly.

Will grabs the tiny knife they use to cut lemons and stalks across the room with purpose. He rams it through the back of Eduardo’s neck up to the hilt without hesitation, without thought even. A strangled noise fills the room followed by the harsh crack of knees hitting the floor. Will snatches up the man’s foot and drags him backward across the floor until he’s right in front of Hannibal.

Eduardo is trying to speak, but blood fills his throat and his voice box is irreparably damaged. Vital arteries are intact but the wound will soon be fatal, only at a leisurely pace instead, one to match the shamefully sluggish crawl he’s beginning to attempt. At this rate, it will take him an hour to reach the front door. They watch in amusement.

Hannibal turns to Will. “Perhaps we should turn on some music?”

Will raises his eyebrows and walks across the room to Hannibal’s row of vinyl. He flicks through them.

“Tchaikovsky?” Will asks. Hannibal shrugs. Eduardo crawls.

Will reads an Italian name from one chosen at random. Hannibal corrects his pronunciation. Will purposefully butchers the pronunciation of another. He catches Hannibal’s irritated gaze out of the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have the Beastie Boys or anything like that, do you?” Will asks. He raises his eyebrows in the most serious way he can muster. Hannibal tilts his head and it’s exasperated enough that Will almost laughs out loud.

Eduardo coughs up blood, gurgling on it as he tries to breathe. His body is twitching in desperation and he’s almost made it to the next room. It’s exhilarating to watch. 

“Let’s just try this one out,” Will says, carefully handling a record he recognizes from the past week. They watch the needle lower and finally meet the glossy edge with a faint scratch before the music fades in.

It isn’t what Will would usually listen to but suddenly it’s beautiful. Goosebumps rise along his arms and he breathes in heavily as he closes his eyes to concentrate. The room must have good acoustics because Will swears for the first time in his life he can feel the reverberations of the music down to his bones. He can smell blood across the room.

“What did he say, anyway?” he finally asks, walking away from the speaker.

“That we are going to hell and he doesn’t want us to drag him there with us.”

Will snorts loudly.

“Among less than kind terms.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. The blind anger.”

“It can only come from a place of deep resentment for the self, repression and deep-seated fear of any deviation from the norm, a desperate grasp onto masculinity for fleeting senses of disconnected superiority to blend into an artificially inequitable world. Cannot love thy neighbour.” Hannibal makes a _tsk_ noise.

“Hm. I don’t think gender studies 101 can save him now,” Will says. He walks hastily forward until he can press down the hilt of the knife with his foot. The man stops and lets out a disturbing gurgling noise.

“Careful,” Hannibal scolds, appearing at his side swiftly. “You might scratch the floor.”

Will takes his foot off. His life is draining away by the second.

“I want to stab him again.”

“The second most fundamental forms of penetration.”

“Do you even hear yourself speak sometimes?”

“What is your design, Will?”

“To make him feel each pierce in his lungs, every metal intrusion as he lays helpless to feel the life drain around him.” He kneels down to get a better look.

“Putting yourself in control instead. What are you hanging on to?”

Will’s whole body tenses as he watches each convulsion of the body. “We don’t have time to talk about this. He’s going to die soon, Hannibal,” he growls.

Hannibal hesitates, but turns and returns in only a few seconds time with knives from the kitchen.

“I’ll fix the fucking scratches later, okay?” Will says, kneeling down to watch the knife press against his upper back, pressing between ridges of bone. Hannibal lowers next to him and copies the form, their knives poised like wings, pressing deeper past fabric and skin with enough traction that it’s slow but parallel to each other.

Will bumps their shoulders. His skin feels intensely sensitive. He observes Hannibal’s hand wrapped around the knife, imagines it pointing to his gut instead.

Will feels the scrape of ribs as he pushes the knife in fully. Eduardo manages to make a noise somewhat like a scream, but the music drowns him out. He quickly abandons him and Hannibal’s timed choreography to stab the man ruthlessly and fast. Hannibal’s leg presses against his while they work, Will’s vision blurring in front of him as he watches the blood spill and splash and fly, an abstract painting, flicks of his brush reaching the wall closest to them.

He blinks and realizes the body has long stopped convulsing and he gasps. 

Will scrambles away until his back hits the floor. He’s the one convulsing now, blood pulsing rapidly under his skin though his heart is still steady, or so it feels. He looks down at all the blood on top of him, feels it drip down his skin as he turns his hands. He hadn’t meant to lose control in such a way. 

Hannibal is still kneeling over the body but he’s watching Will, running his eyes all over him. Will twitches like every nerve ending in his body is being pulled in separate directions. The blood is bright red in their warm lighting.

This time feels different. It feels like home. Will laughs shortly and looks back at the body, at the shredded skin and pooling blood.

At home with the Chesapeake Ripper, with the Il Mostro di Firenze, the Copycat, the cannibal, likely other names from some distant time. Will wonders if he’ll ever have a name like that, a name no one knows him by. Existing by his actions, not his self. Painting the streets with art.

“It’s messy,” Will mutters, his brain jumping every which way. “You did things cleanly and precisely, made it last, kept them alive. Before.”

Will looks down helplessly at the mess he’s made on himself. When he looks back up, Hannibal is tossing him a handkerchief. He takes it graciously and watches the blood smudge around his skin, dye the hair on his forearm and dip into the wrinkles on his knuckles. 

“You do enjoy the fight,” Hannibal concedes. “Is this an apology?” 

Hannibal crawls closer, looking not unlike a feline on the move.

“Are you as happy as I am?” Will all but whispers between panting breaths.

“Will. I have been very happy all my life. I have never denied myself joy in all things I could extract it from, I have never allowed myself to be unhappy. When I met you the time not spent with you became less and less appealing, I may well have been the unhappiest person in the world for my entire life for how happy I am now in relation. Yes, Will, the things we feel are perfectly symmetrical, your love for the kill and mine for what you do.”

It may all be lies, Will realizes. A dramatized manipulation set to their passion. He doesn’t care. He will live a step out of reality, a step out of morals, a step out of sensibility for this. He knows what happiness feels like and he’s lived too long without it burning up inside him like this. He can’t help but believe it wholeheartedly.

“How long can we wait to retrieve the organs?” Will asks.

“If we wait too long we only need to get more,” Hannibal says casually.

“Are you choosing me over dinner?” Will asks. He hopes he sounds casual but he can’t hide the twitching of his limbs. He stays as still as possible while Hannibal approaches. The music grows slow and tense. There’s no denial anymore, but Will’s mind attempts it nonetheless, tracking over Hannibal’s desiring gaze.

“I will choose you over just about everything else in the world.”

“You should be careful making statements like that. I might take advantage.”

“I know you will.”

Hannibal settles on his knees and puts a hand on Will’s cheek. Will’s eyes wander over all of Hannibal, to his scuffed suit and the splatters of blood drying on his hand and the hair ruffled out of place. 

“Eduardo wouldn’t want to see this,” Will whispers with a faux pout. 

“Would you like to take his eyes out?”

“They won’t work if he’s already dead, remember?” 

Hannibal watches him for a moment. “You are stalling. How are you feeling?”

Will looks at the dead body. “Like I do every day,” he jokes.

“Hiding behind humour is still stalling,” Hannibal says in a reprimanding tone.

“I am… anticipating.”

“And your feelings?”

Will gives him a dry look for only a moment. “I feel alive. Powerful.”

“And yet suddenly apprehensive. You are scared of losing control in this regard. Is it because I’m a man?”

His last fingertip grasping onto the ledge of denial lets go, as it should have long before now, but reality proves itself to be far more overwhelming. In theoretical terms, he is long past ready for this, and he’s angry that his suddenly rigid and twitching body doesn’t seem to agree.

Will speaks sharply. “I’ve spent most of my time worrying about a great deal of my nature that being a _bit gay_ wasn’t particularly high on the list. It’s difficult to strive for convention when I already miss the mark by anyone’s standards.”

“Is that how you define yourself? ‘A bit gay’?” Hannibal looks amused.

“I don’t define myself as anything. Are you trying to define me?”

“No. I don’t enjoy labels. I’d prefer to hear all your thoughts instead, surpassing orientation.” Will sighs and drops his head but Hannibal lifts it by the back of his neck, squeezing. “Not necessarily now. But perhaps there is use for a shorter conversation. I have questions.”

“What questions?” Will asks, not bothering to mask his annoyance. 

“What do you want?”

The question is so vast that his mind turns empty. He feels shy about using large platitudes right now, knowing the context. Will just wants it, an instinct, one that has to surpass every nerve, and he’ll think it through another time. 

“I want to stop talking,” he says.

He reaches out and undoes the buttons to Hannibal's suit jacket. He pushes it back over his shoulders and Hannibal lets him. It drops to the floor and Hannibal waits for Will.

And he moves fast, before he can spiral, before he can regret and rethink, he presses his lips to Hannibal’s, hands on either side of his face to hold him close. 

He can’t even think about if Hannibal is kissing him back because he’s smushing their faces together so successfully that Hannibal doesn’t have a choice to, but slowly, hands wrap around his low back with a firm grip. Bruisingly firm. Every cell in his body presses forward, searching for the cure to the painful ache inside of him.

After it all, every speech dancing around each other, every touch, all that Bedelia and everyone around him said, it was hard to believe it could be true, that Hannibal could be in love with him. He feels an undeniable sense of hope, one that instantly feels rather pathetic. Even now it’s uncertain, it could very well be the long game of Hannibal’s manipulation, the pendulum chase in which Will must make a rather amusing mouse to scratch deeper and deeper. Hannibal could be laughing at him now beneath it all, looking on with resigned fascination no matter his particular attachment. 

Hannibal catches his lips with pinching teeth and Will rips away from him with a burst of panic in his chest, pushing on Hannibal’s chest and staring at him.

He glares at Hannibal and lifts a hand to touch at the cut on his lower lip, then he licks the blood off, adding to the metallic clang in his mouth.

Hannibal doesn’t smile, he stares on with open curiosity, but his mouth is open in a way that Will hasn’t seen often, that makes him look slightly more human. His eyes are dark and it’s impossible to distinguish if it is of murderous rage or something akin to lust. Perhaps they go hand in hand.

Hannibal’s hair is tousled and it’s a strange thing to observe, knowing Will was the reason for that particular scuff, that he can lay his hands on this man. He lifts his hand and runs it through Hannibal’s hair, then bunches it up in a fist and kisses him again with all the passion he has inside of him.

He’s rocking forward against Hannibal’s hip, their biting kisses and all the weeks of abstinence built up in his chest creating a pool of desperation spreading from the inside out, but Hannibal keeps his hands still on his hips.

“Fuck, can you just…” Will grabs one of Hannibal’s arms and yanks it so he’s reaching downward. Hannibal cups him on the outside of his trousers and then shudders.

Will starts fighting with Hannibal’s shirt while Hannibal gives in to opening up his trousers and when a hand wraps around Will, he sighs in relief and starts rocking up and down to make up for Hannibal’s stillness that he doesn’t understand until he jerks back to look at his smile.

“Do you ever stop trying to torture me?” Will asks.

“I’m not trying to torture you, I’m trying to take you in,” Hannibal says, moving his hand too slowly.

Will pushes him onto his back and again tries to fuck into his hand for some release, but Hannibal seems move concerned with running his eyes all over Will and starting to pull his hair with a fist in his curls. Will grunts but secretly he thinks it’s all endlessly arousing.

“Our bed would be a much nicer place for this,” Hannibal says. Will notes how breathy his voice is and how dazed his eyes appear. His hand runs up and down Will’s back.

Will rolls his eyes. “I’m not moving.” The hand in his pants disappears.

With a surprising amount of strength, Hannibal sits up, bringing Will with him and gets his hands under Will’s thighs as he shifts to stand. Will wrestles out of his grip until he falls back on the floor and then starts to laugh.

“Fuck _off,_ you are not going to carry me. I’m coming, okay?”

He scrambles to his feet, ignoring Hannibal’s help, and Hannibal starts going after the buttons on his shirt, walking closer as if he cannot bear to take his hands off for a moment. Will starts to walk backward while Hannibal follows every step.

“You win. We‘re gonna go to the beautiful room you’ve rented with all the beautiful furniture you own and make _beautiful_ love that fits your outrageous aesthetic,” Will rambles on, getting his arms twisted up with Hannibal’s as he gets his shirt open.

“You tease but you, too, see the beauty in it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will says.

“And I’m not renting.”

Will doesn’t even give in to rolling his eyes, too focused on pulling Hannibal into the room. Hannibal pulls his shirt off, using careful hands at Will’s bad shoulder before throwing the shirt across the room and pushing Will roughly onto the bed. Will huffs and readjusts on his elbows.

Hannibal leans over the bed, holding himself up by the arms and staring shamelessly.

“And you are beautiful as well,” he says with so much sentiment in his voice that Will suddenly feels dizzy. He considers saying it back for a moment. Hannibal crawls toward him before he can and Will takes in as much as that image to remember for a later time before he’s being kissed and pressed down into the sheets.

Hannibal reaches sideways for a moment and Will follows his lips while Hannibal reaches blindly into his side drawer. He stops kissing him for one moment to see Hannibal dripping lube into his own palm and rubbing it between his fingers to warm it. 

“Okay, just don’t, _y’know_ , right now,” he mutters dumbly. He squirms until Hannibal’s hand wraps around him and he thrusts into the beautifully slick hole that he has made with his fist. Just as quickly, he loosens his hand and Will groans.

“You must be clear about what you want and don’t want,” Hannibal says. He sounds seductive and he’s watching Will’s every move. It’s not a game, Will realizes, this is theatre and he is the show.

“Touch me,” Will says through clenched teeth.

“Where?”

“You know where.”  
  


“I would like to hear you ask for it.”

“Jerk me off, God, is that what you want to hear?” He can’t help but smile.

“What a way with words you have,” Hannibal says. Will doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so fond and bright, staring down at Will with everything bared, every inch of his attention for Will. He tightens his hand and Will can’t help but let out a noise.

“I hate you sometimes,” Will mutters without much edge.

“Hate is not so far from love,” Hannibal says.

Will opens his mouth but cannot bring himself to say or even think of a response, he only feels a flood of emotions that he quickly wants to run from.

Hannibal moves his hand over him in a perfect rhythm that Will thinks fits with the music. Will meets his eyes but can't keep them for long, not under Hannibal's extreme focus. He squirms against the mattress but his desire for more has not subsided, if anything it’s growing worse and worse by the second as he reaches for something so close to him.

“Hannibal,” he pants, “I need—” 

He cuts off with his mouth wide open. Need what, he doesn’t know, but he’s starting to suffocate being pressed against the mattress under this man. Somehow, Hannibal understands and they roll over so he’s on top. Will nods in agreement.

“Tell me,” Hannibal says.

“Faster,” Will demands and starts to fuck into his fist at an equally fervent rate. Their bodies rub against each other and he catches Hannibal’s mouth with his and bites and grabs with his hands until his orgasm approaches like a car about to tip over the edge of a cliff.

He moans—and he doesn’t remember ever being vocal during sex before and his mind spares him little more than a second to be embarrassed before he realizes he cares so little because there’s a relief and a moment of serenity he never thought he’d be able to reach. As if a knife has been stuck right into his gut and pulled across his flesh. Every emotion subsequently flies out of his pores into the air around him and then he’s emptying, and fizzling, and collapsing down, more sweaty than he had any recollection of becoming, laying all of his weight across Hannibal.

He lifts his head slightly but Hannibal has his face pressed against his cheek, holding him in an iron grip and breathing in and out immensely enough that his chest lifts and lowers Will. 

Will turns and kisses Hannibal and arms squeeze around him tighter until his bones protest and he tries to ignore his poor shoulder. It seems like Hannibal is trying to breathe him in completely and the thought makes Will shove a hand down between them to Hannibal’s belt.

It’s difficult to get it open with one hand and zero space between them but the most distracting piece is Hannibal’s gaze on him that looks akin to pain if Will didn’t know any better. He supposes there’s little difference. He feels that too.

Their entire history flashes past his eyes, all the closing distance and the pain and the separations that he no longer would have the strength to manage. He can feel Hannibal walking alongside him through every memory unto this point. It feels too overwhelming to truly be enjoyable. But Will admits, with everything in him, that it is beautiful, he sees it now in all his clarity. He gets Hannibal into his hand and rubs his thumb against the soft, velvety skin and down until he finds coarse hair. Hannibal’s eyelashes flutter.

“Are you okay?” Will asks. He’s not sure if he’s ever checked in on Hannibal, or felt much urge to.

Hannibal smiles and presses their lips together softly. Will sits up and looks at the scene in front of him with as much clarity as he can through his post-orgasm haze.

And he wonders if he ever loved, ever cared for, ever wanted anyone _truly_ in his life before now, for the sight is new and overwhelming. His hand is moving slowly over Hannibal’s crotch, feeling every inch of skin with wandering fingers, teasing him more than he teased Will, but he doesn’t protest. Will can see the tension in every movement but Will keeps touching slowly and running his eyes up Hannibal’s chest to his eyes again. There’s no room left in his head for anxiety when he knows this could not be felt with anyone else below him.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers. 

He snatches up the lube and pours it on his hand while he leans back down on Hannibal’s chest to touch him properly. There are other times to go slow and now is too overwhelming to wait longer.

Will experiences the unbelievable sensation of Hannibal letting himself go beneath him, kissing passionately and mouthing at Will’s neck like he’s truly trying to eat him. It might have been a scary thought some other time, but now Will presses closer. He doesn’t hold back any noises, short grunts and moans and hums from the back of his throat into Will’s ear. Will can barely react as he tries to take it in, his chest burning with affection. 

Hannibal says his name into his ear and then kisses him so hard it hurts when warmth spills over Will’s hand and he tries to press down all of his love into the space between them.

Slowly, Hannibal grows pliant and soft beneath him again and Will rolls off so he’s no longer crushing him.

He stares on for a minute as Hannibal’s eyes close and then delicately sets his head on his shoulder. Arms squeeze around him and don’t let up while they lay for minutes upon minutes, as their breathing returns to normal and all the sweat and come and bits of blood dry between them.

Will tries to relax emotionally, and tell himself that Hannibal is here to stay. That neither of them will let anything come between them. Throughout the manipulation and distrust, there’s something undeniably special, a desperation that has taken a lot of self-control not to let slip until fallen over this barrier. Will knows they’ll never be the same. 

He leans on his elbow to look down at Hannibal, shocked again that this isn’t all a dream. Hannibal stares intently into his eyes and Will reckons he could just sit here and stare for a while without either of them protesting. 

He clears his throat and the spell breaks a bit more. Hannibal lifts a hand and strokes across the scar on his cheek. Will leans into it and tries to think about something to say.

Hannibal beats him, leaning close to say, “I’m rather hungry,” with a glint in his eye.

Will remembers the dead body sprawled across their floor and smiles. “What’s for dinner?”  
  
“What would you like for dinner?”

“Hm. Burger and fries?” Will raises his eyebrows and watches Hannibal stare back at him, unamused.

“You find great pleasure in bothering me,” Hannibal observes.

“Who wouldn’t?”

Hannibal gives him a look.

“Only because you’d make them regret it. You tolerate me.”

“I don’t tolerate you. I rather adore you. I cannot even pretend it isn’t true. I have lost myself in you.”

Will has no response, and cannot even react as Hannibal extracts himself out from under him. He doesn’t avert his eyes as Hannibal pulls on a suit, piece by piece. He’s so confident that Will can’t think to be ashamed about staring. His mind is melting into a puddle anyway.

Hannibal stretches out a hand.

“You have observed enough. Let me teach you how to properly remove organs.” 

Will smiles vibrantly up at him and rolls out of their bed.

-

He sets still-warm organs onto a plastic sheet spread out next to him. He cuts and pulls them out delicately and watches where the vibrant red colour fades off at the edge of his wrist. He imagines it spreading across his whole body. He cuts through slabs of meat and sets them aside. Eduardo is completely dissected and Hannibal talks him through a rather demented surgery, tying his veins and popping out his joints. Eduardo doesn’t smell objectively good but the evidence of death in front of him is grossly encaptivating and he can’t help but stare on with sparkling eyes. 

Hannibal sits directly behind him, nuzzling into the back of his neck more than he’s directing. He peaks over Will’s neck like a second head attached to his body and Will wonders what it says about him that this is the most intimate thing he’s ever experienced in his life. He chuckles into the still air at his luck.

  
In the end, Eduardo is left in town with every bit of skin flayed open and stretched, pinned to the wall of an alley, his joints dislocated and veins taken apart but left in place to be found and seen by the next lucky passerby.


	8. Florence, IT

He’s walking through the streets, drawn to warm light like a moth. It doesn’t offer him respite from the cold night but it creates a positively radiant association in his mind of comfort he once had.

His legs don’t step where he wants them to and each movement results in a jostle and a sustained effort to keep upright. A hiccup nearly makes him fall over.

When he does fall, jamming a knee onto the curb edge, he welcomes the pain. He’s been a bad person. He’s been a bad father, nephew, son, boyfriend, friend. He knows how people see him, and doesn’t have the mind to argue it.

It doesn’t stop him from searching. His eyes play tricks on him, his breath catching on hope, hope for a figure to walk out of the shadows to share more than a cigarette with him. He wonders if it will happen before he succumbs. 

He starts to sing. He only stops at the occasional hiccup, which he hasn’t been able to shake for as long as he can remember. He sings an intentionally chaotic rendition of _Tonight, Tonight_ by the Smashing Pumpkins, ringing across the quiet night toward all the travellers, beckoning them to come and join. He slams his bottle of liquor against the post to the beat until it shatters in imitation of a twinkling instrument. Then it all goes quiet.

He hiccups. And again. He holds his hand to his chest, wincing at the pain that suddenly isn’t receding. He slaps twice at his chest and he wonders if tonight will be the night. It took long enough.

His hands move from his chest to his throat and his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. It’s suddenly and inescapably agonizing in a way he never could have prepared himself for. The skin of his throat stretches in a harsh red line, starting to leak blood where his artery crushes against itself, suffocating him. He opens his mouth as wide as it can go as he collapses to his weak knees, which break beneath his weight. He tries to fall to the side but something is pulling his face to the sky, and the intrusion surpasses his throat and into his mouth until a giant beak shows itself, stretching out his lips and expanding from his face. His spine twitches as feathers pop out from each vertebra and finally, his face rips outward in a giant circle as the bird's beak emerges completely from his throat and opens to screech.

Will is hyperventilating and scratching at the ripped skin on either side of his mouth when a figure appears in front of him. It tries to pull his arms away from his mutilated face and he rams his fist forward to stop it, hitting something very solid.

He blinks and perceives Hannibal above him with his head snapped back, but it doesn’t stop him from panicking over what he’s become, over what he’s killed and wants back. He lets out a sob and tries to get up before Hannibal moves impossibly fast and gets him pinned to the bed by his weight. He gasps to pull air into his near-crushed lungs and slowly starts to recognize that he’s out of his night terror and back in reality.

He breathes out, out, out, it’s gone, the pain and fear are gone.

Hannibal is saying his name, an air of impatience that tells him he’s been trying to speak to him level headedly for a while now.

Will nods quickly and squeezes his eyes shut and Hannibal lifts above him so Will is no longer trapped. When Will opens his eyes he sees a drop of blood drip out of Hannibal’s nose and falls onto Will's upper lip. Hannibal swipes it away with his thumb.

“Shit,” Will mutters and Hannibal rolls off completely. He stands and walks away and returns a minute later with a cloth pressed under his nose. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at Will with an air of accusation.

“I didn’t mean to…. Fuck, I haven’t had one that bad in a while.” Will pushes himself up and feels how damp the bed is under him. He twitches when he feels the cramp in his tense shoulder.

It hasn’t been that bad since before Hannibal returned. The nightmares still occur, though at decreasing frequency and with less an air of reality. This dream was vivid. And the association is fresh.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see it, but his subconscious has never been kind to him.

Then, he realizes he never even caught the name of the drunk man he killed in Newfoundland. It was a considerable attempt to dehumanize the man, a risk he was willing to take, and now he knows it was a mistake. His subconscious empathized with the man, and saw too much, put Will right in his shoes just now. If only he had stopped to think. 

He realizes with a start that he regrets that kill. Perhaps he had known all along the pain it would cause him. The repentance he gave to earn Hannibal’s forgiveness. He was a man not unlike Will, and he didn’t deserve to have his life cut short, not when there was more for him. 

“Will. Come back.” There’s a snapping noise in front of his face and he finally opens his eyes, realizing they’re wet with tears.

He had the gall to regret saying no to Hannibal all those times. How could he forget this uncertainty within him? Can he go on like this? Killing to feel something, killing to gain Hannibal’s affections, killing and gaining ghosts in his shadow?

“Will, please.” Hannibal tilts his face up and he looks.

“What can I do for you?” Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head. _Nothing. Absolutely nothing now._

“I just need a towel,” he says, and heads to the ensuite to pat down his slick back. Hannibal walks in behind him.

“Let us discuss it. Discovering the source of this terror will allow you to face it.”

Will washes his face with cold water to stall. Then turns halfway to Hannibal.

“I turned into a bird.”

“A bird. What kind of bird?”  
  


Will shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t see myself. A big, burgeoning one.”

“Did you fly?”

“No. I woke up while I was still reaching form.”

“Was it a violent transformation?”

“Yes, very.”

“How did you feel about the transformation?”  
  
“Dread. I knew I would never be able to actually fly.”

“Then why did you transform into a bird that would never fly?”

“My dreams aren’t always the most logical,” Will retorts. Hannibal waits, unamused.

Will keeps his words vague. “I was going to be stopped by an outside force.”

Will can see Hannibal making the wrong connections in his head and allows him to do so. Will walks past him back to the bed and throws the towel down on his side. He hears Hannibal blow his nose and then he returns with only his cloth, turning lights off as he goes. Only a few hours ago they had fallen asleep in such lethargic bliss.

“Just forget about it. I’m used to this. I need to practice some avoidance, or else I’d never be able to live.” 

“I reckon there’s more we can do than that.”

“Not right now, fuck, I’m so tired.” He shimmies down until he’s somewhat comfortable.

Hannibal gives him a look.

“I really punched you, huh?” Will asks. He squints through the dark.

“Quite hard,” Hannibal confirms.

Will snorts.

“Don’t be too pleased with yourself,” Hannibal says.

“Thought the first time I punched you would be for something righteous. Sorry. Gotta find some humour to get past all this shit.”

“Only if you do not run from your feelings.”

He hesitates. “We just need to be careful, in this life.”  
  
“We will be,” Hannibal says. Will turns over and feels Hannibal come up behind him and hold him tightly. He clings to his hand for the rest of the night, worrying in equal parts about his drowning guilt and his fear of losing this life, and the complete incompatibility of those emotions.

-

They sit by the terrace with fresh coffee from an ancient-looking siphon where the morning light shines in. The doors are propped wide open so wind and noise fill their apartment while they stay hidden inside, watching the world go by like kings of the castle.

There’s a line of blue along the inside of Hannibal’s eye, reminding Will of his sudden awakening last night. He enjoys seeing the mark, knowing he put it there, even if it hadn’t been his intention. He has a blossom of bruises on his own neck that had been a surprise when he finally looked in the mirror. He ought to feel like he’s back in middle school, pressing at messy hickeys to see how they feel, but from Hannibal, it doesn’t feel juvenile.

Will is tired but psychologically, holding it together. The rich coffee and the better aspects of last night are forefronting his thoughts instead. He remembers every time Hannibal meets his gaze.

“Are you still inclined to not talking?” Hannibal eventually asks.

Will sighs but smiles. “Just go for it.”

“Are you interested in continuing a sexual relationship with me?” 

Will hopes with all that is in him that he doesn’t start blushing. He stares firmly out the window. “I am.”

“Am I the first man you have had a sexual relationship with?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any reservations?” 

“Not particularly. As I said, I am _well-_ practiced in the art of ignoring shame.”

“It may surprise you, the way that heteronormative notions guide your conceptions and ability to let yourself go.”

“I will keep it in mind,” Will mutters. “Do you? Have reservations?”

“I do not.”  
  
“I take it you have been with men before?” Will asks.

“Yes. I have never wished to deprive myself of any indulgences. Including but not limited to beautiful people.” He looks pointedly at Will and Will furrows his eyebrows. 

Will gives him an exasperated glance in response.

“Don’t turn modest on me now,” Hannibal says.

His mind is predominantly invaded with abstract ideas of all the people Hannibal has had sex with before him. He frowns and takes a sip of his coffee. Nonetheless, it is a fascinating but terrifying thing to hear in clear terms how Hannibal sees him. Will has often wondered where the attraction begins and ends, if it’s an extension of their desire to consume each other. Somehow, simple sexual attraction seemed the least likely option when it comes to the complexity of their relationship, but Will reckons it might be a whole myriad of factors. In any case, it’s a curiosity he’s glad to uncover now. And a curiosity that burns bright thinking of the future, along with a delicious, addicting sort of anticipation.

“Are you disinclined to anal sex?” Hannibal asks suddenly and Will sputters, wiping at the coffee spilt down his chin immediately.

“Jesus Christ. No. No, I’m not disinclined.”

“Last night you made a point to—”

“I know, can’t we just take things one step at a time?” Will looks at Hannibal’s amused face and realizes he’s stepped right into the trap and given an entertaining reaction. “You love to get under my skin,” Will says. 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and continues to look pleased with yourself. “Of course it is a fair conversation to have if you are preparing for new experiences.”

“Not exactly new,” Will says and looks sideways for Hannibal’s reaction. To his own satisfaction, Hannibal pauses, taken aback.

“No?”

“Just because I haven’t been with men doesn’t mean women can’t offer varied experiences. With accessories that is.” He stares smugly at the look on Hannibal’s face. He knows he isn’t the only one prone to jealousy, at least. 

Hannibal ends off in a small smile, though.

“Of course. I continue to be intrigued and impressed by the pieces of your life I have yet to reach.”

They both sip at their coffee.

“And the surgery you performed?” Hannibal asks.

“Would also do again. A very satisfying experience.” They both stare at the wall and smile like it’s an inside joke. The smell of eggs al forno and its particular accompanying ingredient wafts from the kitchen.

They eat across from the table and Will barely even glances at his plate. He’s staring at Hannibal’s mouth, and him at his, replaying last night in his mind. Every vulnerability felt between them lost any and all plausible deniability, each desperation and physical urge bared visible and tasted viscerally. There was a quiet sense of power in seeing Hannibal succumb to urges and lose his controlling demeanour, and there was palpable freedom in letting go of his own barriers to feel pleasure rather incomparable to anything in the past. He wonders if they can grow any closer, if it is possible for any humans in the world to feel such a magnetic intimacy as they had having killed together and slept together in nearly the same breath. The sensations were nearly painful in their magnitude and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop from taking it again and again.

It is only the ghosts that haunt Will’s mind that threatens their bond. He resolves himself to dealing with the pain for the pleasure now presented to him.

After they do the dishes side by side Hannibal reaches for his shoulder just like usual and helps Will move it in circles. The pain is less these days, but Will isn’t going to tell Hannibal that. This time, Hannibal leans up against his back, heavy so that Will’s hips press into the counter. It’s ineffective physiotherapy and it doesn’t take long for Hannibal to just spend some time running his hands over Will’s shoulders and kissing his neck gently.

They end up back in bed before they can even have lunch.

Hannibal’s lips are soft, pliable, he lets Will suck them into his mouth and lick and spends a while exploring them. Maybe _too_ pliable. He rubs over the bulge in Hannibal’s trousers but to little reaction.

“Are you going to kiss me back?” Will asks, pulling back an inch. “Like, any day now.”

“It is nice to be kissed by you. It is a fascinating and revealing aspect of a person, and one I’ve never even gotten to observe from afar with you.”

Will sighs. “Go on.”

Hannibal rolls over so he’s laying on top of Will, heavy and warm. Will breathes in deeply, an effort now. The sun streams over them and the blankets are pushed to the foot of the bed in a messy pile. The room is beginning to feel less like a stranger's and more like _theirs,_ with water glasses and wristwatches on side tables, books and tablets stacked on the dresser. No one in the whole world knows where they are, no one else gets to touch this space.

“You don’t shy away from using tongue and teeth, but you do so in such a firm and controlled way, your jaw set. You also do not ever pull away, you stay pressed close even as you move. A long, fluid dance,” Hannibal says.

It’s hard not to feel self-conscious being told such a thing. Will doesn’t even know what to reply to that.

“You’re weird, you know that?” he says.

“It is not a comment I get much, actually.”  
  


“Well, people aren’t paying attention.”

Hannibal smiles at that.

“Maybe I can tell you how you kiss if you fucking kiss me back. Or do other things.”

“I am in no rush.”

“I’m not getting any younger here. I think I might be aging faster, actually.”

“Age becomes you already,” Hannibal says. He tugs at his curls where he knows a few grey strands now lie. It’s the stress; a new, fun kind of stress that is, but stress nonetheless. He can’t complain, especially when he does enjoy looking at Hannibal back, signs of aging and everything.

His body moves before his brain decides to, kissing Hannibal again, while Hannibal allows himself to be kissed with a slight smile.

He pulls off with a pop and lets his head sink back into the pillow. “Weird that you’re so passive. Do you _want_ me to lead?”

“I’m merely drawing it out.”

Will tilts his head. 

“I get to experience how you decide to pursue me.”

“I’m not getting the same privileges, then.”

“You have experienced me pursuing you for quite some time,” Hannibal says.

“I’ve pursued you. I followed you to _Europe_ for fucks sake.”

“Yes. But your pursuit was plagued by indecisiveness.”

“Should we discuss the flaws of your pursuit?”

Hannibal smiles. “Better not.”

Will gives him a wide-eyed look, raising one eyebrow.

“I have no doubt that look works on a lot of people.”

Will’s lip twitches. “Does it work on you?”

Hannibal kisses him, crushing Will’s lungs when he leans down. Will already feels breathless but he’s beginning to feel consumed, all that there is is only them. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing of his own accord or if it’s in his mouth and out in Hannibal’s. Hannibal strokes along his jaw and it only adds to the surprisingly nice feeling of being trapped.

Hannibal lifts his head just enough that Will can’t kiss him back. Will waits for him to say something but Hannibal just stares around his face.

“I’m going to murder you,” Will says, but can’t hold back his laugh. He squirms.

“At least do it in a beautiful way.”

“Perhaps our fantasies have always been the same.”

“They are.” He smiles.

“No. I reckon yours are worse.”

“Definitely the most unethical thoughts I’ve had about a patient during sessions.”

Will’s mouth gapes and he presses his tongue against his teeth to try to stop from smiling.

“But not as bad as during dinner parties,” Hannibal adds on.

Will squirms more intensely and laughs into the pillow next to him. He looks back and shakes his head. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by how strangely _normal_ it feels to do this when he never could have imagined Hannibal laying on top of him and making him laugh more than he has in months.

“Put your money where your mouth is, then,” Will says. He squirms deliberately.

Finally, Hannibal gives in, whether at Will’s request or because he finally lost some of his resolve, he will never admit, but they roll on their sides and try to touch each other at the same time anyway. Fumbling and knocking wrists slow them down, as does Hannibal biting his ear hard enough that he half-punches him in the stomach, but eventually they come gasping into each other's mouths.

-

After stewing and reconsidering and stewing over again in the course of a few days, Will finally leaves the apartment. He knows that if they are to be here long-term, he cannot be stuck in solitary with Hannibal. He will suffocate in about two weeks' time, if that.

It is only the rare true crime fans and avid criminal justice workers who keep up to date with the FBI's most-wanted list to look out for. Will isn’t actually on that list, he reminds himself, not yet. 

Staying in the apartment isn’t as torturous as it would have been in the past. There are books galore to distract his mind. Hannibal lets a string of music play constantly throughout the day, whether it's his own playing or the vinyl player he has. Tattlecrime.com and the new head of the behavioural sciences unit are having a particularly boring time back home.

There is the considerable factor that he now can relax by giving into urges of affection and attraction to Hannibal, and the stimulating atmosphere of figuring out just how to live together whilst including affection and attraction into their relationship.

It isn’t like most relationships Will has had. Hannibal isn’t like any person Will has ever known, so it feels like they’re rewriting the rules. They aren’t the type to kiss on a whim or cozy up on the couch, but when they do touch each other, they fall in deep.

It hasn’t gotten any less overwhelming the few times they’ve slept together. It feels like drowning, like desperately searching for each other, like partaking in a dance-like fight, or the most masterful game of chess. 

Will wants to maintain a slice of his dignity and not let Hannibal see how much he’s affected while indulging himself as much as he craves. He’s attuned to how Hannibal pushes him to the edge, watches for his reactions, tests him. Hannibal is pushing him to let go of control more each time and Will is starting to let him.

Will is becoming attuned to Hannibal as well, though it’s more complicated. He’s more in tune with his own body and adapts to Will’s touches. It’s Will himself that makes Hannibal’s eyes glaze over. He’s attentive and reacts to every button Will pushes.

Hannibal talks a lot, quotes and soliloquies and wordsmiths of his own creation, Will is sure, and Will tries his hardest to make him shut up.

Will twists his hand until Hannibal stutters ever so slightly over his words. He’s taken to using his mouth, kneeling between his legs and staring at Hannibal staring at him, and in those moments he can often make Hannibal trail off completely. Just this morning he slid two fingers inside of Hannibal and mouthed at the side of his dick for as long as he could handle it until his shoulder and all of his muscles were aching, and Hannibal barely got a word out.

Everything is a game. And it’s addicting. Sex and romance have never been his priorities, but now it feels like another stage coming into himself. And here Hannibal is, alongside him. It feels surreal after years of carefully toeing the very idea of it.

He strolls to the park absentmindedly and tries to shake the thoughts out of his head. This is his time to be solitary, not to be mentally sitting in their apartment. 

The park is almost abandoned aside from some birds hopping around his feet greedily. He watches them for a while before googling a bakery on his phone and bringing back some bread to share. 

He’s walking back past the bus stop when he sees the CCTV camera. He puts his head down quickly but paranoia seeps into his bones anyway. He doesn’t know if anyone is actively looking for them. It would take a great deal of resources and knowledge, but it has been done before.

He sits and feeds the birds, ripping off little bits of day-old rye bread. They hop around and peck at his sneakers until he kicks them and they fly back a few feet before closing in again, greedy bastards. 

His subconscious immediately takes him back to his dream of the drunk man turning into a bird. As much as he tries, he cannot shake it. He’s had the same dream repeatedly over the last few nights, though it isn’t always enough to wake him in a panic anymore it leaves him exhausted throughout the days and dreading sleep like he hasn’t in a long while. It doesn’t seem to matter how happy he is during the days, the ghost comes each night.

The drunk man wasn’t even a threat to them. It could have been avoided, but Will was impatient to prove his trust to Hannibal and reconcile. Crossing his own boundary was an atonement he was aware of on some level and he ought to lie in the grave he’s dug, but his overactive imagination makes that easier said than done. He worries about a relapse of instability, one he might not be able to hide. Hannibal would feel betrayed to know Will was still struggling with himself.

He enjoyed the kill, undeniably, but he can’t see humans like Hannibal does. Not like pigs. Often, he has so much disgust for other humans that they’re as good as pigs, but other times, he sees himself in them. In their fears and hope and desire to be happy and their views of the world. He is no better than them. He knows that the perfect victims won’t always fall into his lap as he explores this lifestyle. Hannibal was right, he ought to expand his horizons. A drunk man seemed innocuous enough.

The ghosts will never stop following him. Even the ghost of who Hannibal is, for which his feelings are impossible to return from.

They don’t belong to this world. Will would like to know no one _but_ Hannibal. Will doesn’t gain the same satisfaction out of life that Hannibal does. 

He resents his own self-pity and hates that he has the audacity to complain about his corporeality and existence. It sounds pathetic, even to him.

It was his own choice to become a serial killer, as absurd as it is. He can only blame persuasion from Hannibal to a certain extent, and that line is fuzzy even to him.

He feeds the birds with a deep frown plastered on his face. This decision was never going to be perfect. Leaving might have been easy but it doesn’t lessen the trailing hurt. Deep in his heart, he knows that Molly, Walter, Jack, Alana, everyone at the behavioural sciences unit, even his dogs are wondering where he is, staring at the ceiling as they sleep, watching the door and imagining his knock. Wondering if he’s dead, wondering if he’s with Hannibal, wondering if he’s just run away forever, too traumatized to return. He wants to tell them that he is as happy as he’s ever been but it wouldn’t be a comfort, not with who he’s become when no one else could understand. 

He doesn’t care enough, but the care he has hurts. He pities the people who got tangled up with him. And part of him wonders if killing them would stop the hurt.

God, he wants a dog. The birds are annoying and chirpy and coming too close to his ankles. Perhaps he can find a stray in a more impoverished town. He wonders what Hannibal would say. It feels irresponsible, some part of him knows they won’t live a long happy life in this spot or any one location in the world. Another piece he must mourn.

His head starts to pound. He puts his head in his hands and wills himself to go find some drugs at a convenience store, but for a moment it’s bad enough to incapacitate him. 

He’s staring at a piece of gum stuck to the pavement when a tattered sneaker steps right into his line of sight. The birds all take off with a lurch. Will raises his eyes up the ratty trousers and cheap jacket where a bloodstain sits smack in the middle. The man stumbles slightly where he stands and Will would recognize him anywhere. He can even smell the whiskey.

“What’s your name?” Will asks.

“I don’t have one,” he smiles loosely.

“I should have looked at you.”

“You listened. To all my stories. I told ‘em to the night, and you took ‘em.”

“You were obnoxious,” Will says, leaning forward on his elbows. The drunk man plops down on the bench next to him and begins singing the same song.

Will stands up abruptly and walks off. He needs to acknowledge that he isn’t very good mentally and that this probably calls for an emergency therapy session at least. In the current context, that is both convenient and foolish.

He returns home and is surprised to see the time that has passed. He tries not to show the confusion on his face. 

He thinks Hannibal is building a sailboat in a bottle at his desk and he has zero thoughts to share about this new activity that Hannibal will undoubtedly be an expert on in a few day's time.

He pours himself some whiskey instead. He takes a sip and cringes and then takes his glass and the bottle to the next room.

He stares out the window. More fucking birds. It’s an absurd transformation, probably all in his head, but that makes it real enough for him.

He gulps down his glass and shivers. His taste is better acquired for cheap liquor than this potent, aged stuff.

He never succumbed to substance abuse, thankfully. If he’s honest, the hangovers just made his mental health that much worse. When he’s intoxicated it’s even harder to get a gauge on reality. He can’t deny the respite that induced-apathy brings nonetheless. 

His entire life is a trip in itself. No amount of drugs or alcohol could provide him with more. He chuckles at the thought. Even when he isn’t hallucinating his life can be pretty gruesome.

He stops laughing to himself and frowns into his cup as he refills it again. He’d expected some short-lived euphoria at least, a loosening, a break from these sad thoughts of the day, but he just feels _empty_. 

He pours another glass.

The drunk man clearly had a long-term habit with alcohol. And no home to return to. 

Will has many privileges, especially now. He reckons he could find a home with Hannibal in any city in the world, and probably doesn’t need to work another day of his life if he doesn’t want to. He should be happy. And he _is._ For the most part.

He’s sipping out of the bottle more than the glass by the time he peels himself out of the chair. He does his shoulder exercises, not particularly steady on his feet, and wonders where the self-pity ends today. He hiccups and groans aloud. 

He hears footsteps and dreads the interaction before it’s begun. He closes his eyes and tries to find some semblance of peace in the few moments it takes for warmth to appear at his side.

“What’s the occasion?” Hannibal asks, tilting the bottle to read it. Will sees just how much has drained from the bottle.

“To life,” Will says in cheers, but he doesn’t seem to do a good job of appearing cheery. Hannibal frowns.

“Or more accurately, death?” Will amends.

“It is understandable if this new life weighs down on you at times. A relapse of some sorts, whether reverting or reminiscing your old life or the result of not processing the euphoria of such changes. I’d rather we discuss than you turn to unhealthy distractions.”

“Too late,” Will says, reaching for the bottle. Hannibal puts his hand over Will’s to stop him from lifting it.

“Oh? You want to control my choices?” Will asks. He’s not drunk enough for his tongue to get twisted up, at least. He thinks he gets that skill from his father.

Hannibal hesitantly lets go of his hand. “No,” he says.

Will takes a small, defiant sip. He really ought to be nicer to Hannibal, he thinks, but he continues to glare in his eyes anyway. He remembers turning up to Hannibal’s hospital cell and being mercifully cruel while feeling the tug of his heart at the very same time. It was a desperate attempt to hide, he realizes.

“Is it your past you are thinking about? Everything I have taken you away from?”

“Well _now_ I am,” he grumbles.

“There is a great deal of anger inside of you.”

“Well you did go for someone with certain murderous urges, so really what did you expect?”

Hannibal observes him for a long moment, considerate. Will waits with his chin jutted out for what Hannibal’s retort will be. Then, Hannibal gives the slightest eyebrow raise and turns and walks away.

Bitterness spreads throughout Will’s limbs like a poison he swallowed. Perhaps he’s too drunk for Hannibal to foresee a real conversation happening, but it feels worse. He realizes how desperately he needs not to push Hannibal away, as much as he desires it.

He sways on his feet and squeezes his eyes shut against the dizziness. They spend nights pleasuring each other and yet Will can still barely stand to be friendly at times. It would feel like giving in completely, giving _up_. Already the sex is overwhelming, but he can be confident when he’s masked with his sexual arousal. It isn’t exactly affection for affection's sake.

He ambles into the other room without a plan and leans against the desk, trying to look casual. Hannibal’s pushing a stick in and out of a bottle while the paint dries on other pieces. It’s easy to see that it resembles their sailboat perfectly. 

“This hobby began in the 19th century. To think that it is not forgotten even now. Sometimes the most simple of art pieces leave a lasting inspiration. Recreated in perpetuity.”

“Uh-huh,” Will mutters. Finally, Hannibal sits back in his chair and stops fiddling with his project.

“Yes, Will?”

Will wasn’t aware that he was holding himself up on Hannibal’s shoulder but he leans in closer and half-falls to sit sideways on Hannibal’s lap, not caring if he’s too heavy. He straightens with an arm around Hannibal’s shoulder and stares in his eyes. He takes a thumb up to the bruise on Hannibal’s eye. It’s faded now but Will can clearly see where it was, even as he squints slightly to focus his vision. He presses down with his thumb and wonders if there’s still an ache from before. Hannibal grabs his wrist and Will yanks away.

“What do you want, Will?”

“You,” he mumbles. He begins to lean in to kiss Hannibal but he leans away.

“You are telling me what you think I want to hear.”

“So you think I’m manipulating you? And is that _not_ what you want to hear?” Will smiles amusedly and leans in again, broaching the space that Hannibal tries to make between them.

He licks into Hannibal’s mouth, breathing heavily and leaning in greedily when Hannibal pushes him away again. Will turns away to glare at the wall, petulant. 

“I don’t believe I like you very much when you’re drunk,” Hannibal says.

“What, you don’t think I’m like this all the time? Maybe you just don’t like me very much.”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You try very hard to make me not like you at times. There is a thin line between your humour and your very real resentment.”

“Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something.” 

He hiccups and it brings him back to reality for a moment. Him, sitting right on top of Hannibal and being mercilessly cruel, _again_. He forces himself to look back at Hannibal’s hurt, unamused expression.

This isn’t even a fight between him and Hannibal, he realizes. It is just so easy to blame Hannibal. He feels the burn of regret in his throat but knows bitterness will overshadow. He has to get away.

“I do,” he says quickly, in place of an apology as his eyes suddenly burn. “Want you,” he clarifies, then winces, because it’s a silly thing to say.

Hannibal stays quiet and nasty wisps of insecurity take hold, reminding him of a time before. He has the gall to not speak it out loud, but just barely. He keeps his eyes trained on the air next to them.

“You need reassurance of some sort?” Hannibal asks and Will can’t quite gauge his tone, but Will knows he’s being stupid.

“When did you start to want me?” he asks instead, pure curiosity.

“The very start. When I first met you.”

Will laughs aloud. “No you didn’t,” he says, sure of it.

“I am not lying. Perhaps it was even when I first heard about you, of your work, at least a small part of me.”

Will looks back at Hannibal and is instantly overwhelmed by the sentiment on his face. It’s too much. He can’t wrap his head around such a thing.

He keeps his mouth shut but it feels like Hannibal is hearing his questions anyway. _Do you love me? Can you even love me? Can I love you? Do I love you already? What does that even mean for us?_

Hannibal doesn’t reply and Will doesn’t really want him to. He’s looking away to avoid what he sees.

“You should go lay down,” Hannibal says. Right. Will pushes up off of Hannibal and heads straight to their bedroom, burning in shame.


	9. Florence, IT

Will wakes with a headache and then ignores all of his problems. Ignores that Hannibal never came to bed, ignores that he had another repeat of his last nightmare but with the additional stag staring at him ominously, ignores that he’s feeling particularly less stable, the hangover exacerbating every negative feeling. 

Will doesn’t even bother showering. He returns to the same park to sit and watch the birds and drink too much coffee. He mopes and dreams of a stream and returns only in time for dinner.

The sailboat in a bottle is presented on the mantel. Their purgatory. He stares at it and remembers rolling over the waves and anticipating every one of Hannibal’s movements. Things felt simpler before he made any clear decisions about his relationship with Hannibal. Now he feels the pressure to be certain and guilt over his anxiety.

Will thinks up a million platitudes he could use to reassure Hannibal, all of which Hannibal would see through immediately. The silence drags on at dinner, but it’s a heavier silence and he finds himself growing impatient. 

“Should we talk about it? Or stew here for a while more?” Will finally asks.

“I’m not sure that you are ready to talk.”

Will clenches his jaw. “Stewing it is then.”

“You need to find a way to reconcile your anger. I know you are hung up with old regrets. You are in your element here, and yet still trying to push me away.”

Will shrugs. “Force of habit?”

“You are quite rude.”

“I’m not used to you being so nice and _normal_ , and without ulterior motives.”

“I can be ruder if you’d like,” Hannibal says.

“Go for it. Please.”

Hannibal has a few more bites before speaking.

“You are rather insufferable at times. Always trying to push my buttons and finding yourself far too humorous for it. You sweat a worrying amount and I’ve had to order multiple extra sheets because I’m tired of washing them. I don’t like the way you keep rearranging our cabinets. It isn’t practical. You also need a haircut from a professional.” He points at Will with his butter knife.

“You cut my hair last,” Will says, but his mouth is twitching with the effort not to smile.

“I’m not trained in haircutting. It’s uneven.”

“I have no money to get a haircut,” Will points out. “Do you want me to be a freeloader?”

“I don’t mind. Especially if it means I can stop looking at the choppy bits.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know if you are borderline delusional or merely stubborn when you pretend to care about other people. It is exhausting,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Will laughs. It should bother him, but there’s some strange relief to speak it into the open.

“This is where you belong, Will.”

“Are you jealous of me even thinking about the past? Do _you_ need reassurances?”

Hannibal sighs. Will notes his lack of denial with satisfaction.

“They are not deserving of your thoughts. You have always been too good for everyone else,” Hannibal insists.

“I have already isolated myself from them, what else do you want from me?”

“I want you to kill them. Let them see who you have become, with me watching where they can see. It is not incompatible with respect, I reckon you can respect them a great deal if you decide to.”

“Hm,” Will says, swirling his wine around. “I would love to leave Jack on a forensics table for the FBI to find him, ready to complete the autopsy and find all sorts of memories on his body.”

Hannibal hums in admiration.

“I would like Freddie Lounds to write the article about her own death.”

“She would do a spectacular job on it.”  
  


“I’m sure she would.” 

Will tilts his head as though he hasn’t thought about the next one in great detail already.

“I want you to cook up Bedelia alive. I’d like to watch.”

Hannibal nods.

Will sips more wine. He stares at the sailboat behind Hannibal’s head.

“You are missing a few people,” Hannibal says.  
  


“I’m not particularly thrilled at the thought of orphaning more kids.”

“We could take the kids with us.”

Will snorts. “Because that worked out so well last time. No offence, I don’t see fatherhood ahead of us anymore.”

“But you would feel the obligation? Again?” Hannibal asks.

“It’s all hypotheticals. Hannibal, we would never get out of there alive or free if we did those things.”

Hannibal watches him steadily. “And as for my promise?” Will remembers Alana with a painful sting.

Will shrugs. “You have a death wish?”

“You doubt our abilities.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You are making an excuse. You haven’t even asked if I have a plan.”

“We aren’t invincible,” Will says, but he knows Hannibal is right, and the thought makes him shake in anger. He’s pretty sure Hannibal does have a plan, and he’ll want to execute it sooner than later.

Hannibal only looks at him.

“I’m done, you done?” Will looks down at their plates. Hannibal gives him a small look of assent and Will takes them to the kitchen and leaves them in the sink. Hannibal comes up behind him to help.

“Just leave it,” he says, turning.

Hannibal looks around the messy kitchen, not without distress in his eyes. “I have another thing to add to my list,” Hannibal mutters. Will ignores him.

Will walks between Hannibal and the counter. This still doesn’t feel all that natural, and he has the awful memory that the last time he kissed Hannibal with his lowered inhibitions he practically shoved his tongue down his throat. It makes him hesitate as he puts a hand on Hannibal’s cheek and lifts up to catch his lips. He doesn’t want to argue. He wants something in his life to be easy.

Hannibal sighs against him. It’s his hands that travel softly up his cheeks only to twist painfully in his hair.

“What would you say if I asked to fuck you right now?” Will asks.

“I would say yes.”

“Can I fuck you right now?”  
  
Hannibal gazes into his eyes. 

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what? Stop talking like you’re so polite. I know your thoughts are among the crudest.”

“Yes fuck me, Will. I want you to.” He says it pointedly and with amusement.

Will smiles, running the words and that accent through his mind.

He keeps his hand on his chin when he kisses him and walks backward, not stopping until he reaches the bedroom and gets Hannibal on the bed where he can tug off his pants.

“Are you going to give me so much control forever?” Will asks.

“Perhaps not.” Hannibal smiles mischievously. 

“So I should enjoy this while I can?”

“We may continue doing whatever we want.”

“But what you want is more?” Will works the rest of Hannibal’s clothes off and grabs their lube, glad for the distraction because he can feel an inkling of nerves coming up his spine.

“More? Quantitatively, yes, I believe we are both inclined to having sex continuously and in a greater number of ways. Qualitatively, it is fruitless to compare acts and assumedly we will grow and change. You should be more specific.” Will can catch the teasing beneath his dead-panned words.

“ _You’re_ insufferable,” Will says, sliding a finger inside of him. He keeps his eyes trained on Hannibal’s face so he doesn’t start overthinking.

“Tell me what you expect of me.”

“Your pathology is that of a sadist, and with that God complex that I would infer some entitlement to control and to getting what you want,” Will says.

Hannibal shows only the slightest smile in response. Will adds a finger, fucks in and out of him and watches him carefully, but Hannibal seems more serene than anything. 

“Taken with a decent degree of self-control, I wonder what’s below the surface.”

“I respect your consent, you know,” Hannibal says.

“I know. But you’ll have to tell me what it is to get my consent.”

“You already said it, and you know you’re right,” Hannibal says. “Then tell me, Will, how does that make you feel?”  
  
He says it as he lifts his legs up with surprising flexibility. Will leans on the back of his thighs and hesitates, feeling his face heat slightly. Hannibal has little modesty and few boundaries and Will isn't used to being offered so much.

“A lot,” Will finally chokes out.

“Clearly. That’s a non-answer.”

Will pushes inside and chokes out a moan in surprise. He watches himself go in and then meets Hannibal’s gaze with wide eyes.

“Make no mistake, I want everything from you,” Hannibal says, pulling Will down to kiss him. 

He starts to moves and watches Hannibal glide up and down on the pillow, faster and faster.

-

Will drapes over Hannibal and watches the morning sun spread over the room, acknowledging but uncaring about how ungodly sweaty he is. It’s the lasting evidence of another recurring nightmare he wishes he could shake. It brings back fresh guilt.

“I _should_ be nicer to you,” Will mumbles with a sigh.

“Do I get a list too?” Hannibal asks. Will smiles.

“The boat in the bottle was nice, I made one once as a kid, but not as good as yours,” he says. He looks to Hannibal and sees him nod in encouragement.

“Hearing you play music is nice, too. You give great massages _._ It’s not so bad waking up from nightmares when you’re there.” He trails off and feels suddenly self-conscious. It had sounded less vulnerable in his head.

“Didn’t even compliment my culinary skills,” Hannibal comments. Will laughs, pulled out of his short-lived nerves.

“Too obvious, I need to level out your ego some.” Will smiles fondly at him.

Hannibal strokes along Will's cheeks with a feather-light touch and brings his face closer. His tone is clipped with emotion. “Never in my days did I expect someone who knows who I am to look at me like that.”

Will’s smile slowly falls. He sits up and Hannibal lets him go.

“Well, you’re not exactly easy to love,” he says.

“You make it hard on yourself. And on me.”

“I’m hard to love?”

“By your own volition. Your natural state is one that makes me want to do anything and everything for you.”

Will feels a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “Maybe you _want_ to, abstractly.”

“I disagree. I _would,_ to the best of my abilities.”

“Even if I asked you to never kill again and live a life of menial ordinariness with me?”

“A pointless thought experiment,” Hannibal says.

“And why’s that?”

“You would not be yourself. The guideline is that I would do anything for _you_ as you are, operating under the values and reflections at the core of yourself. To ask for such a thing at this point in time would be to revert to significant repression or self-control to push down the violent urges you have experienced and acknowledged. It would be a great deal of effort from you with unimportant motives. I would attempt to return you to happiness and indulgence because that would then be best _for_ you, and discuss boundaries until we have met a compromise. You do not want to live in menial ordinariness and I do not wish to see you unhappy. I’m sure we will go through extended periods of resistance to keep safe and free, but it is nothing I haven’t dealt with myself. You have become; I will not stand by and see you fall apart, and you do not want me to.”

Will thinks about that for only a moment. “Unimportant motives?”

“Trying to ascribe to a moral philosophy or value system that doesn’t align with your desires.”

“My conscience is unimportant?” Will asks.

“Your question is misleading, and I don’t doubt you see the simplicity in your thoughts. Do you truly believe in an inherent, unchangeable conscience in your nature below any outside influence?”

“To an extent. Anthropologists note certain taboos across time and place, even in isolated cultures, it is rare to be so _under_ human nature.”

“There is a certain context of familial and collective ties resulting from human nature, leaving few to be truly isolated subjects. Undeniably a human's conscience is changed by their context. A human in a hunter-gatherer society will not have the same conscience as someone in middle-class industrial society. We develop associations and morals, and for some of us, the values spouted by religion and masses are contradictory because we can see more than them. Considering many of the individuals you have studied, do you truly believe all humans are disinclined to, say, murder or cannibalism or incest, the most taboo features of humanity?”

“Asking me to make a sweeping generalization is a great way to shut down my argument.”

“Then how does your argument stand?”

Will looks at him with a serious expression. “That _I_ have a conscience, and I recognize that it is selective and crosses social taboos in itself, but I am not without reservations to this lifestyle.”

“You used to have many more reservations that you worked through by shedding your cultural brainwashing.”

Will shakes his head. “No. This is different. I never gave a single shit about most of the people I met. It doesn’t mean I didn’t meet people who were _better_ , who understood, and you know what that is like. People I have seen fall because of me that _haunt_ me now. You see everyone as pigs, as below you. I don’t see those same people as below me. Am I below you?”

“No,” Hannibal answers immediately.

“Ah, our platforms of worth are incompatible. It seems we have a difference of conscience.”

“Are you truly so stubborn to not recognize the blindness of your social conditioning? Individuals you have learned to concern yourself with. You see your brethren, you know you should protect and love, even willfully ignoring your superiority because you know relationships are supposed to be equal.” 

“I am not denying my determinism, I am recognizing its influence.”

“Then you can recognize your ability to fight the shackles.”  
  
“Because I want to do so?” Will asks challengingly. Hannibal twitches slightly but does not lose his aura of calm determination.

“You love the version of myself that I reduce to savagery after I give into my urges,” Will continues, and when Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, Will puts up a finger. “My nightmares are about the drunk man in St. John’s. Every night it is the same. Tell me that’s what’s best for me again?”

“You only wish to torture yourself, setting out on this ‘lifestyle’ as you call it while continuing to repent because of everything you’re hanging onto. You tell yourself you are a vigilante to cope.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Will seethes through his teeth and stands up out of bed to find his clothes.

“I am listening to you and considering every word.”

“Then you are not understanding me.” 

Will gets dressed and promptly walks to the front door. He drapes his coat in the crook of his elbow then shoves his feet into his shoes. He spares himself only a glance in the mirror and regrets the action immediately, there is nothing to do about his choppy haircut or eyebags anyway. 

He waits for Hannibal to speak, to give him some kind of reassurance, or perhaps fight him more, or offer worry about Will leaving him, but he just stays silent. That’s who Hannibal is, he will let Will go and spark up a calm conversation on a later date and be relentless in his arguments.

Will slams the door and walks aimlessly, twitching with anger. He knows that if he had stayed, his anger would have pushed him to do more. Perhaps a twin black eye. Perhaps worse.

-

He sits on his regular bench and glares at the birds. He’s practically seething and he doesn’t know why. They had a debate. They don’t need to agree on everything. Besides, he doesn’t _want_ to return to a menial life, not even with Hannibal next to him. He doesn’t know what he wants, other than to stop hurting and stop being so confused.

It seems he can’t win. Drunk-man will haunt his dreams until he doesn’t anymore. 

Something out of the corner of Will’s eye pulls his attention. For a second he thinks it’s going to be the apparition come to haunt him again but at closer look, he can deduce that it is reality around him still. He feels a great deal of clarity as a result of his anger, and his instincts are setting off alarm bells as a result.

It is a man that caught his attention. A rather large man with a cellphone to his ear who turns when Will looks. Not quite a casual movement, though he tries his best. 

Will scopes out the area around him and sees there’s no one else. He stands and walks in the opposite direction.

He doesn’t need to turn to know the man is following him. He should have brought a weapon, or his cellphone, or anything really. Not that he needs help to kill but this is broad daylight and he craves a home to stay at for longer than a week.

He isn’t experiencing the fear that he expected he would at the thought of potential capture or assassination. He feels capable and determined instead.

If the man’s intentions weren’t obvious already, he turns and follows Will down an alley. He stays a fair distance and is still on the phone. Will walks faster and when he turns another corner he quickly hides behind a dumpster before he can be seen.

He can hear the man hesitate at the corner, his feet sliding on gravel. He walks in the direction of Will cautiously and it’s easy to slip behind the dumpster and quickly grab him by his arms and slam him face-first into the building. He’s strong and Will loses hold of his arms but slams his face harder so the man stumbles and misses Will with his elbow. He gets turned around and Will doesn’t waste any time in slamming his fist against his face over and over and over again, knocking through the fists he puts up in defence. 

The man reaches for his gun but Will snatches it out of his grip and throws it aside before landing another punch. The face in front of him warps and turns bloody and Will barely notices the ache in his knuckles until the man falls to the ground. He’s still breathing and moving slightly.

Will flips him onto his stomach and crosses his hands over his lower back, kneeling on them. It’s then that he notices his phone fall to the side. Will picks it up and sees that it’s still on a call. 

He puts it to his ear and hears breathing. Rather fast breathing but barely there. He presses it closer and waits for a moment.

“Well? Anything to say?” Will growls into the line. The phone disconnects immediately.

He flips through the phone as he leans his weight down over the man who is breathing shallower and shallower.

“Who sent you?” Will asks. He goes into the man’s phone history and sees only one number used over and over again, unlabelled. It only goes back a week. 

Will searches his coat pockets until he finds a wallet. Mostly cash, a couple of cards, ID.

“Brian?” Will asks. “You really ought to tell me who sent you. You won’t be very happy if you withhold information. Is it really worth the salary you get?”

Will opens another pocket in the wallet and smiles when he finds a photograph. He observes it for a moment then sticks the photo in the man’s face.

“Sutton, is that? Great bass out there, good taste. Looks like a fun day. How hard do you reckon it would be for me to find your family next time I take a trip to Virginia?”

The man makes a considerable effort to escape and Will has to readjust and hold on. An abandoned beer bottle catches his eye, which he snatches, smashes on the wall and then sticks into the man’s throat until it bleeds.

“You’re _really_ not worth this,” Will whispers cruelly. “And I don’t like people that waste my time.”

The man yells louder and Will sticks the sharded glass further into the sensitive skin on his neck, almost enough to damage his windpipe. His eyes pop out of his head.

“I’ll ask one last time, who sent you?”

He sputters for only a moment. “Bloom!”

“Great,” Will says and stabs the bottle in as far as he can and pulls it out, watching blood spurt across the gravel. The man doesn’t struggle for long.

Will stands over him and takes two long breaths before working through all of the information before him. 

He hardly thought that Alana and Margot would trust his mask of victimhood anymore. This was a case of surveillance and not assassination so Will reckons they either want to lock him up, which seems rather picky when the stakes are protecting their son, or they need Will to lead them to Hannibal, the worse threat. They clearly have a lead on Hannibal and Will’s location that even the FBI doesn’t.

Running can only take him and Hannibal so far, he thinks hopelessly. They will never be able to live in public life with their use of public surveillance. Their capital is grand and they will be relentless, he _knows_ Alana.

They need to kill Alana. And Margot, who would surely come after them in Alana’s absence.

Will’s stomach sinks. He’s not ready. He thinks about watching the life go out of Alana and Margot’s eyes, knowing he was the cause. He thinks of their son, of orphaning him. His animosity suddenly isn’t guiding him, it’s a sense of regret and wariness.

He’s not ready. He doesn’t want to do it, and he doesn’t want to leave this home yet. Hannibal will expect this of him and not understand why he can’t kill the people who already betrayed him. It’s a block in his mind he cannot deny, and their family would haunt him for the rest of his life if he were to kill them. The nightmares would take over everything. 

If he returns home, Hannibal will smell the blood on his hands in a second and see the cuts. He could stay in a hotel for a night, feign anger for longer but he has no money, not even a dollar. He has no supplies whatsoever. Will needs more time. There’s no evidence that he’s been found close to their apartment, and if there is he will kill them. It’s only a twenty-minute bus ride away, but it can spare them a short while longer.

He looks down at his bloody knuckles and gnaws at his lip.

A reckless moment of anger and an apology gift, Will thinks. It’s extreme enough that Hannibal may be inclined to believe him.

Will leans down and wipes all the blood on his hands onto the man’s jeans. He blinks rapidly as he recalls the direction he’s gone and walks quickly out to the street.

He smiles at strangers and walks with a pep in his step. He steps into a deli and when he’s greeted in Italian he realizes how impossible it is for him to keep up this persona when he can’t even communicate.

“English?” he asks but it’s quickly clear there is no hope for that here. He tries to point and gesture but quickly gets impatient. There’s only one staff member, a small woman, and one other customer looking at him with barely concealed judgement. He lets out an exasperated sigh and then walks past the counter and into the back. The woman jumps backward in what is rather exaggerated terror, he thinks. Hopefully there isn’t blood on his face or something. He grabs the first cloth he sees. He considers nicking a knife but there’s a large chance he would have the _polizia_ called on him. 

He grabs some plastic deli bags and then a couple of large shopping bags, scrunching them up in his fist.

“Grazie!” he says obnoxiously and struts out of the deli. He can never return to this neighbourhood.

He makes it back to the body, still untouched and abandoned. 

He chuckles at the absurdity of his life as he begins to gut Brian with the bottle and slowly detach his liver and kidneys. He uses a bag as a make-shift glove. He sets them gently in his deli bags, zips them up and lets them hang off his arm in the shopping bag. He’s not strong enough to lift the man into the dumpster so he just wipes his hands on the cloth as best he can and takes it with him to toss somewhere else. The last thing he needs is to be traced back to the deli where Italian authorities will learn about his face. He leaves quickly and runs through the story he’s made up in his head until almost he believes it. He reminds himself that he’s the only person in the world who can deceive Hannibal, and he will do it again, garnering the bits of truth inside of him to do so.

He strolls down the street in a misleading direction and sits on transit with a bag of fresh human organs on his lap. Life could be worse.

-

Will opens their front door and breathes a bit heavier, reigning in his very true feelings of coming down. Hannibal looks up from the couch with wide, cautious eyes and a frown.

He passes Hannibal the shopping bag and watches his mouth fall open slightly as he looks inside.

“A peace offering,” Will says simply. Hannibal sets the bag down next to him and reaches for Will’s bloody knuckles. 

“Do you feel better then?” Hannibal asks. He guides Will by his wrist to the kitchen and holds it under some cool water. An achingly fresh memory comes to Will’s mind but this time, Hannibal is leaning affectionately against his hip.

Will doesn’t need to lie for his response. His anger is sated and anxiety held off by this flush of adrenaline and control. He breathes out in a chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Thank you for the meat. I do not require a peace offering, though. I reckon it was only convenient after you got your anger out?”

“I know,” Will mutters.

“I will reciprocate by making you a foie gras.”

Will watches the blood from his hand dissolve under the water. No wonder the staff members were scared. 

“Where did you go grocery shopping?” Hannibal asks, looking at the bag with amusement.

“Park.”

“Hm. And how did you make your selection as you browsed the meat aisle?”

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” Will smirks. Hannibal hums and grabs a bandage from the cabinet for his fist.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at me,” Will mutters. He reckons lies of omission are the better course of action.

“Mm. And how?”

“My hands. Then I used a broken beer bottle.”

“Resourceful.”

Will can feel Hannibal staring at him intently. He doesn’t meet his eyes, worried about what room Hannibal may stumble into right now.

“How did you feel?” Hannibal asks.

“Clear. Determined. Sure. In my element.”  
  


“Do you feel guilty?”

“No. Not at all.” And it’s true, regarding that man whose name he already forgets. He was stupid, reckless to follow Will.

Hannibal smiles approvingly. He thinks he’s won the argument, Will realizes. He’d like to argue back but it isn’t the responsible choice with this lie bumping around in his mind. 

Such a risky, selfish lie is a betrayal that could surely cost him Hannibal’s affections and his life. He _does_ feel guilty on that count, but still, he doesn’t speak. 

“And how was it to go on alone? Myself with a blind eye to every action and thought.” Hannibal's voice is breathy.

Will keeps his face neutral as he thinks. “I prefer you with me. I prefer you watching.”

Hannibal smiles and to Will’s surprise, pulls him into an embrace. A hand holds the nape of his neck firmly. He breathes out a shaky breath and tries to relax but this is a physical sensation with many memories attached and suddenly he’s feeling an air of fear again. That perhaps Hannibal sees through him, and everything is over. He subconsciously braces for pain.

Then Hannibal pulls back, though he keeps the hand on his neck.

Hannibal stares at him for a beat too long, Will thinks. He mentally adds the paranoia and guilt of Hannibal seeing through him to his list of stressors that will follow him day to day.

Before his anxiety can take precedent, he finds Hannibal’s face with his hands and kisses him with intent. He can’t have Hannibal staring at him like that right now. Besides, he feels sudden desperation to remind himself that they are together, and they are okay. For now at least.

In his distraction, he doesn’t notice the hand tightening in his hair until it’s genuinely painful.

He whimpers and is about to ask, _why does it always have to be fucking hair-pulling,_ when said-hand yanks him around and manhandles him until he’s pressed face-first into the fridge door.

Not a single sound releases from him, and his lungs empty of all air. His mouth falls open in shock and he slowly assesses the uncomfortable amount of weight pushing him forward, his desperate grip on the edge of the fridge, his cheek pressed against cold stainless steel. 

Fear makes his limbs go numb from the fingertips in and his heart is beginning to beat faster than it sensibly should in any human.

Hannibal leans his lips against Will’s ears and for a moment Will is certain he’s going to hear Hannibal say ‘I let you know me, see me…’

“Choose a word,” Hannibal says.

Will pants in, out. “What?” he gets out. He struggles slightly and Hannibal pushes harder against him.

“A safeword. I don’t think you want to relinquish all boundaries to me.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“I can foresee some complications with you choosing that word.”

A joke, Will recognizes. This is merely foreplay. This is what they do now, hurt each other for pleasure instead of revenge. Somehow it still feels like revenge, like something that Will deserves.

He huffs out a laugh of his own, half relief and half disbelief.

“Teacup,” he mutters bitterly. 

He tries to sneak a glance at Hannibal’s face, but before he can he’s spun around and bent over the kitchen island, his arms twisted up in a lock. Hannibal leans down on him again and Will can’t even struggle. He feels small, _taken,_ and he surprises himself with the flash of pleasure in his gut.

“You are a ruthless boy,” Hannibal says. He readjusts his hand where he’s holding Will’s wrist and sticks a fingernail into one of the cuts on Will’s swollen knuckles. Will whimpers at the sharp pain and struggles ineffectively.

“Already bored with the vanilla?” Will grumbles.

“No,” Hannibal says simply.

“Only want _more_?”

“If that is how you insist on phrasing it. And you?”

Not without shame, Will nods.

“Do you trust that I will stop if you use your word?” 

Will gulps. “Yes,” he mumbles.

“Any reservations?”

Will slowly shakes his head.

Hannibal yanks his head up by the hair. 

“Please be vocal.”

“You’re going to make me go bald.”

Hannibal pulls, making him arch his back until it’s growing past discomfort and he needs to groan.

“No reservations, no reservations,” he stammers. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, but he can’t help the smile spreading on his face. It feels like he doesn’t need to think anymore, for the first time in his life, he can just _take._ He hasn’t forgotten about his betrayal, instead, he feels powerful. He is in this particular position with Hannibal and going to survive another day at that. It is the best repentance he could think of, a pleasurable one at that, what he wants to give to Hannibal.

“I’ll go easy on you, don’t worry,” Hannibal says. 

Will can’t keep down his laugh.

Hannibal strokes his cheek kindly and Will’s cheek tingles at the contrast of touches. 

“You have a say in all of this, just be careful being too much of a brat. I understand that’s a lot to ask of you.”

“You’re predictable, you know that? Oh, a sadist loves to be rough in bed? I never would have guessed,” Will mocks.

“But can the mongoose be tamed? Now that’s a thrilling question.”

“A very strange thing to call me right now,” Will says, struggling against the pinning hands just for the fun of it. He nearly breaks free, too, before Hannibal has to use both hands and more weight to press him into the hard counter. Will stares at the countertop in front of him and reckons there’s some symbolism here that Hannibal enjoys.

“You want a different pet name?” Hannibal asks.

“Please don’t. It’ll be unbearably cheesy whatever you say.”

“Rude, you are,” Hannibal says, and Will is quickly taken off of the counter and, to the despair of his already tingling scalp, Hannibal grabs a fistful and bends him over halfway and walks him out of the kitchen like that.

When he finally gets dropped in the bedroom he rubs the top of his head, letting Hannibal push him onto the mattress and wrestle off his shirt.

“Seriously, give it a break unless you want to buy me a toupée.”

Hannibal doesn’t reply, he just crawls over Will and pins him by his wrists.

“I’ve had a lot of wishes come true lately,” Hannibal says, running his eyes over every inch of Will’s skin.

Will fidgets. It feels like _more_ when Hannibal is facing him.

“Most of all I hoped for you to Become. On the subject, why don’t you tell me more about your morning?” 

Hannibal leans in inch by inch and Will feels a shred of his original fear. He wonders if Hannibal can smell the lie on him. Hannibal moves closer and Will tries to sink into the mattress, unsuccessfully, until Hannibal’s mouth is at his throat. He feels teeth and Will freezes. There are logistical cracks in his story, a kill lured in broad daylight would be hard for Hannibal even. He won’t mention it unless it is asked of him.

“Well?”

“There isn’t much to say. It felt intimate, though I wish he fought back harder, didn’t get a single punch. After, I kneeled on his back and stuck the glass into his carotid artery, watched it jet like a crack in a tank.” 

Hannibal looks at him out of his periphery and Will doesn’t know if he’s imagining the anger and skepticism.

Will scrambles for something to appease Hannibal and stumbles upon a piece of truth he can weaponize. 

“I used to imagine doing the same to you, and letting the blood spray over my chest and my face.”

Hannibal hums in satisfaction and Will feels a blinding relief at the noise, but then the teeth shift down to the side of his neck and clamp down. His eyes widen with each increased pressure and he sees himself get his neck ripped out, in his mind's eye. In reality, it is a slow stab nearing overwhelmingly painful on his sensitive skin. He yells out, scrambling with vigour against his pinned arms. He doesn’t use the safeword because for a moment he’s sure Hannibal is going for the kill.

It does end, Hannibal pulls off and Will is left with the aching linger. They meet eyes again and Will swears he can see the betrayal in Hannibal’s gaze, deep in his pupils, far too familiar of a feeling, but without any strong evidence still. 

Will wants to scramble and explain himself, make promises, but Hannibal just leans down and kisses him softer than he’s been and Will lets himself get taken up by the comfort of the gentleness.

Will doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad sign that Hannibal pauses this particular sadism to get him off with his hands, but Will lets himself get lost in it anyway, kissing him like a plea to be good and the whole time wondering if he _has_ been tamed, because some more pain and he might spill every secret and promise anything in the world.

He comes as Hannibal kisses the wrecked side of his neck and feels an intoxicating mix of genuine fear and arousal, and spills it all out with a moan that he thinks sounds rather distressed. 

He tries to blink away the overwhelming feeling of it as he rubs at his wrists and fights at a sudden emotional lethargy. Hannibal pulls him back against his chest and Will lets him, though he tenses with Hannibal’s head—and mouth—at such a vulnerable spot behind his neck. He clears his throat a few times to be able to talk.

“Hannibal?” Will mutters, barely able to lift his head from where it’s smushed into the pillow. It feels better with his face half-hidden anyway. His voice sounds weak, even to him.

“Yes, Will?”

“I was a bit reckless today. We should go on a trip while we assess the news. You have other things you want to show me in Europe, don’t you?”

Hannibal is silent for a while.

“Yes, I do,” he finally says and kisses Will on the temple.


	10. Venice, IT; Athens, GR

Will is alive, which seems like a miracle today.

He doesn’t know who is deceiving who anymore, or if it’s a natural state of paranoia he’s only just clued into. He doesn’t know what kind of conclusions Hannibal has drawn. He doesn’t even know his own conclusions.

Hannibal has been affectionate, which Will can’t help but to associate with fear. Fingers drawing on his shoulder, a socked foot resting against his under the dinner table, a hand held while they read, a squeezing hug from behind. Hannibal held him all night long and then woke up to finish packing for their requested tour of Europe. 

Will slides into the passenger's seat and adjusts his scarf in the mirror to hide the nasty bruise on the side of his neck, peeking at it first to confirm it’s really there, in all its nebulous, bite-shaped glory.

He feigns ignorance of any tension between them and smiles at Hannibal as they pull away from their short-lived home. Below Hannibal’s gaze, he flexes and relaxes his hand to feel the sting of his injury.

It’s still morning when they arrive in Venice, gray but shimmering. Will follows Hannibal as he alternates between shopping and touring through churches with more knowledge than the actual tour guides. They sit on the pews and bask in thin streaks of sunlight like God is looking down upon them. 

Will falls asleep in a patch of grass when Hannibal sketches the St. Mark's Basilica as seen over the shimmering canal and has a rare nice dream that he’s living through the Renaissance with Hannibal next to him. 

They take a gondola to their late-night dinner and Will sits with his knees pressed together. Hannibal sways back and forth rhythmically even though there’s no music. It probably exists in his head. Will tries to imagine it based solely on Hannibal’s movements and he relaxes, bone by bone. There’s a particular face-burning shame over the romanticism that he’s never had to experience with women, but he’s alone in his self-consciousness. Hannibal is more enthralled with the sights than him today and unfalteringly self-contained. 

It’s a sight so lovely he doesn’t feel like he’s worthy to look directly at it. The drag through the shimmering water, the culture moving past them, the quiet chatter and liminal feeling. For a moment he’s taken aback by Hannibal’s beauty, his quirky suit and smile lines. So bright he feels he shouldn’t look, so dark that he gets lost in the view.

It feels like the ride lasts forever, drifting along with a brave leg pressed to Hannibal’s, trying to ignore onlookers' curious gazes, but he’s still sad to know he has to get off. Hannibal tips the driver excessively. Will feels unsteady standing on land again. The flow was what he’d needed.

He’s trying to ignore the paranoia of being recognized. Whether by a tourist or one of Alana and Margot’s workers, he’s sure they can deal with it. At least for now, in this busy city where no one really sees them as anything but a couple of glamorous queers.

He turns his back for only a few moments, staring at the sunset from the view of a bridge, and then turns to see something bright red being practically shoved in his face.

“Hannibal…” Will grimaces but it takes an effort to stop the smile from taking over.

“La rosa.” Hannibal pushes it closer with a pleased look on his face.

Will takes the flower reluctantly and holds it loosely near his chest.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” He stares at it with disdain. It might not be so bad if they weren’t still surrounded by tourists and locals alike. He needs a few more glasses of wine. Or something stronger.

Hannibal gives him a look.

“I thought you’d be more receptive to romantic gestures,” Hannibal says.

“This is downright _cheesy._ And flowers just signify the commercialization of love.” Will eyes up the vendor from a few feet away with judgement.

“Come on, see the beauty around you.”

Hannibal dips down just slightly to kiss Will and then he’s gone. _I do,_ he wants to say just as much as he wants to pretend none of this affects him. Hannibal is already strutting forward through the streets and Will has to pump his legs to keep up. He hangs the flowers down by his thigh with the hope that people will stop staring at him. 

Somehow, through everything, he’d gotten it in his head that they’re something more akin to friends, partners in crime, and people who happen to have sex. Perhaps soulmates. Are they a proper couple? By technicalities, perhaps yes. He can’t bear to ask, it feels altogether too strange. Too normal.

He puts the roses in a tall glass in their tiny hotel room anyway, feeling slightly blurry from an excess of expensive prosecco. He sets the tap-water makeshift vase by the window, a half-foot balcony filled with much nicer flowers for the aesthetic. The room is all bed and little walking room in typical European fashion, and Will doesn’t know if he could get the bed out of his mind even if it wasn’t. 

He unbuttons his shirt and attempts to catch Hannibal’s eye contact. It barely takes a second for him to look over, Will should be used to the way they’re always in sync. 

It makes him crave. His stomach is pleasantly filled with _risòto col néro de sépe_ and his body feels sated and nice. It’s a different kind of craving that makes his mouth water and his skin buzz. He walks to the centre of the bed on his knees, throwing his shirt to the side, and Hannibal looks just as hungry.

The kissing that ensues isn’t enough. He opens his mouth wide as though he could take Hannibal down entirely, and lifts his legs up past his hips shamelessly. There’s a sort of fiery desperation trying to escape up his throat and he scrambles at Hannibal’s back for grasp on the situation as if he might slip through the bed if they don’t come together completely.

He lets Hannibal inside of him for the first time. Hannibal knows without asking. He ought to be used to the intimacy, he thinks, but Hannibal’s eye contact makes him freeze in something that feels like terror but is so much greater. Maybe it’s because for the first time ever, he feels Hannibal’s arms shake, sees his eyes glaze over with want. It feels like the difference between Hannibal allowing himself to let go and being able to do anything but.

Even Hannibal’s fingers feel too large inside of him but the stretch doesn’t abate his hunger. He feels the unfamiliar knot of nerves and twitches, trying to hold in a whimper by clinging with all his strength.

“Hannibal, come on.” He tries not to sound too desperate.

Hannibal grabs his chin instead and looks into Will’s eyes.

“Incredible, you are. Just completely irresistible.”

Will can’t help but let out a short laugh, more delight than humour. “Take me then.”

Hannibal rests his chin on Will’s chest and looks up at him.

“It’s a surreal feeling to be offered the thing that has danced around in your head until it nearly became a memory in its own right.”

Will feels breathless at the thought, and impatient. He’s always known he exists in Hannibal’s mind just as much, or maybe more than in the physical sense, and it’s a strange thing to feel like he exists in two spaces, one with little control at all. He wonders if that person is as real as he is, a perfect rendition through Hannibal’s understanding of him, or if Will still has great capacity to surprise him.

He feels seen in an overwhelming and multidimensional way. Will pushes at Hannibal’s chest and then flips over under his stomach before looking back over his shoulder to see Hannibal’s reaction.

Hannibal lays heavy on top of him and kisses him, straining his shoulder slightly. Pressed together like this, Will finally starts to feel like they’re almost close enough. When Hannibal lines up against him, Will feels time pause for a moment, he recognizes the last second before they cross yet another line in their intimacy, any boundaries between them growing fewer and fewer by the day. Will there come a time when nothing else stands between them? Hannibal pushes inside with a burning stretch and Will readily accepts the meshing of their selves. It feels like the least he can give when he has so much guilt over lying elsewise.

“Will?”

It sounds like a check-in and Will smiles at the irony. He nods and arches his back and finds Hannibal’s hand behind him when he starts to move.

His legs are already burning from walking around all day and he’s so dizzy from the wine that the simple rocking of the bed feels like enough, feels _intimate,_ he realizes. And he’s glad that the lights are off so he can stare out the window and try not to think about how _used to this_ he could become, pressed face first into fresh sheets with the smell of roses nearby.

“Stay with me,” Hannibal says. His hands run up and down Will’s sides and down past his thighs, pinching skin and holding him steady.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he mumbles. 

Hannibal takes his wrists in hand, pressing where the past bruises are. He’s been gentle so far, kind when Will feels a little vulnerable opening up like this, but now he presses down more and gets his mouth by Will’s ear.

“Are you?” he asks, then bites the side of Will’s neck that doesn’t currently have a bruise. Hard.

Will squeals enough that someone bangs on the wall, and he ends off in unbelievable laughter, his eyelashes fluttering as he fights against the heavy blanket of _feelings_ draped over him.

“You fucking maniac,” Will gasps, tilting his neck so he can feel the pain again. He does feel more present, enough to sigh at every drag of pleasure, of Hannibal inside of him and of pressing against the sheets. He barely has the ability to move, it’s all relinquishing to Hannibal as he speeds up and hits harder and there’s no real line between the pain and pleasure because it’s everything he’s wanted. It doesn’t feel selfish either, not when he can feel Hannibal shaking still, releasing unfiltered noises and running on desire alone.

When Will finishes he shakes his head back and forth and whimpers, overwhelmed, not sure how to deal with the feelings overtaking him from the inside out, or the after-currents of sensitivity until Hannibal follows behind. Will slumps and Hannibal rolls off of him, an unwanted absence.

“It matches,” Hannibal says, dragging a finger down either side of Will’s neck, hard enough to make him squirm.

Will stretches out in the middle of the bed and waits for Hannibal to come back into his space, though he can’t bear to ask. Hannibal stands and spends a few minutes in the washroom and Will doesn’t want to admit how needy he feels. It feels dangerous, like the kind of expectation that inevitably precedes abandonment. His limbs are out of service and he wants Hannibal to lay down and cover each one until not even the air can reach him.

He tries to convince himself that Hannibal isn’t slipping away but his grasp feels tedious already. Even the aching pain in his body feels like it’s fading. The warmth of the sheets don’t last, the bruises don’t last, the memories aren’t enough.

The solidness of Hannibal when he slips in bed doesn’t feel like enough. When Hannibal was in jail, Will would still see him around but deep down he knew if he reached out the figure would evaporate, that it was merely his imagination. He has the same fear now, even as he grasps at solid skin and bone.

He reaches for Hannibal’s hand and feels the veins on the back, imagines the flow of hot red blood. It’s real. He gives into his urges and pulls closer and closer, sighing against Hannibal’s skin.

“I will always remember this time, Will.”

“Mm.”

“The reality of you is incomprehensibly better than anything I can imagine.”

Will smiles bitterly where Hannibal can’t see. If only Hannibal knew of his lie.

“I can’t even compare your beauty, it makes its own standard. Don’t be modest on me.”

“Do you think that if you’re extra nice to me I’ll let you fuck me again?”

Hannibal chuckles. “Don’t go hiding behind humour on me again.”

Will squeezes him closer. He doesn’t know where to put Hannibal’s affection for him so it hangs in the air as a comforting idea. His eyes are heavy and his limbs loose so he falls quiet and waits for sleep but it doesn’t quite come. He clings on and feels his mind spiral against his will. It isn’t something he can talk about outright, as much as he should. The fear of losing everything is palpable whether or not he shares, though.

“Where did you go when you were locked up?” Will whispers. _When we were apart,_ he thinks.

“Places with a view.”

Will is silent for a few moments. “Was it nice?”

“At times.” A pause. “I kept seeing a deer.”  
  
“A deer?” Will perks up. 

“A deer was taken to be slaughtered before Mischa was. They ran out of deer. I thought that if I followed the deer and kept it close, I wouldn’t see her die.”

“Oh. You tried to teeter between loss and hope.”

“I was uncharacteristically exhausted. The books helped to distract.”

“Did you wish I’d visit?”

“I knew you wouldn’t until you needed me.”

“Did you teeter between loss and hope?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Me too. An achey, sick feeling.”

“Mm.”

“I used to wonder what would happen if we were normal. Normal enough. If I was treated and we had an affair. Do you ever wonder? Just a relationship, dinner parties and fishing trips. Or if I left with you and Abigail. If I’d come over the night before when I was first getting a bad feeling about it all, if you'd have forgiven me. If I’d have been able to handle it. Or if I didn’t pull a knife in Italy, if we’d gone somewhere else. If I hadn’t rejected you. The conclusion I always come to is we couldn’t have.”

“Are these thoughts productive?”

“No,” he says plainly. “I came to the same feeling when we thought Dolarhyde was dead. That we just _couldn’t._ It wasn’t in our fates. And then you left again _._ ”

“Will. I can’t leave you anymore any easier than you could leave me. But I enjoyed the turbulence. I enjoyed basking in the heartbreak and seeing you come to find me. I enjoyed being on the receiving end of your whole range of emotions, your anger and resentment and sorrow alongside our moments of happiness. I want it all, and I never wanted easy,” Hannibal whispers.

“But does history repeat itself? The present slips away so fast I can barely grasp all its glory. I never used to crave chaos.”

“How else would you experience all you need to without a little chaos in your life?”

Will sighs in response and turns over. He waits and waits and finally, arms come around him and he can relax slightly, feeling the pulse in Hannibal’s wrist below the slightly raised line of scarring. The night is sleepless but at least he has someone to grasp.

-

The road trip continues down the coast soon enough, packed lunches and pit stops galore, more old churches than he ever thought he’d see in his lifetime, a modicum of high-end restaurant that Hannibal criticizes in a way that says _I could do better with other ingredients…_ They even take two fishing tours, and Hannibal is kind enough to sit in the back and stay quiet while Will tests the tour guide's knowledge of English with his questions. They jump from quaint hotels to quaint hotels and drink the fridges clean and resign themselves to sweating on warm sheets for the greater parts of the nights. 

Will wonders if they could travel like this for the rest of their lives. If the bank account would ever run dry, or if they could evade capture through movement alone and visit every historical site in the world to discuss philosophy between themselves and find comfort in their nights, blood when the opportunities arose, make a life out of it. They would have no names, their impact would spread across the world as elusive as myths.

He blames Hannibal for making their residence so painfully close to the last residence, of course Alana and Margot could find them there. Not here, though, not on the road through crispy mountains and wind-frosted air toward Athens. He doesn’t think they could, at least.

They amble through the Acropolis museum filled with visuals of Greek history and mythology and Will is reminded of tragedy after tragedy.

Worse still, he can’t shake the feeling of eyes on him. He steps around great marble statues expecting to see a gun in his face, but it’s only the admiring gaze of Hannibal, his gentle voice appraising each work. He keeps searching, stepping through the wayward aisles and trying to catch the eye of tourists but few bite except for wary expressions. Then, he turns and Hannibal is gone.

He spins a couple of times, feelings slightly like a kid lost in a supermarket. The crowd seems thicker, suffocating. Hannibal doesn’t want to sacrifice their quality of life by hiding indoors but suddenly Will feels like this public activity is their death sentence. What can he do if someone attacked Hannibal? Stage a fight in the middle of a famous museum?

He steps quickly and carefully but someone bumps into his bad shoulder and he curses. He stops right before running into a statue, imagining the chaos it could be. He looks up and sees Achilles staring down at him. He stares for a long moment. Patroclus is nowhere to be seen, it is only the warrior, the hero, the one with the destiny. He finds strange comfort in the idea that at least they’re buried together, even if they came to lose in their life. His heart lurches at the possibility of Patroclus not being written on the tombstone, denied his peace and forgotten, never to be together in the afterlife with Achilles. He has to remind himself that the story ends differently. It feels pathetic to panic over a story.

He spins at the feeling of a hand on his back and it’s only Hannibal. He offers a small smile in relief.

He expects a monologue of some sort but Hannibal is uncharacteristically quiet. Will trails behind and the rest of the statues start to blur together. Just lumps of stone and stories they are. He feels tired, like he might just fall over a precipice if one presented itself to him.

They eventually take a taxi back to their hotel, cliffside and luxurious, and Hannibal stops in front of Will before entering the doors.

“Would you grab us coffees before dinner? I’ll shower first.” Hannibal says. He presses a few folded bills into his palm.

Will sighs and turns to go. It is painful to be apart these days, and so strange that he can’t help but look over his shoulder. His hand shakes slightly when he points at the menu in the cafe and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why his knees keep locking up on his way either back but when he pushes open the hotel door with eyes squeezed shut he knows by smell alone that something is wrong.

A gun is in his face and Hannibal in his periphery. It feels like more of an inevitability than a surprise, but the person behind the gun still isn’t an option that crossed his mind recently. It should have, he feels silly for not realizing. Will gulps.

“I’m just going to put down these coffees,” he says, already envisioning the spill that would burn his testicals to a crisp if he gets hit. He sets them gingerly on the dresser then puts his hands up palm forward.

The gun moves intimidatingly closer to his temple as he does so and finally, Will meets Chiyoh in the eye.

“Always in the shadows, hm?” Will says.

“Lessens the chance of betrayal _,_ ” she says.

“To you or just to him?” he spits.

“I almost thought you’d grown. Learned to love. Or God forbid, how to talk without the air of manipulation,” she says.

“Forgive me if trust comes difficult. I’ve had a number done on this shoulder _alone_ to be wary _._ ”

The gun slowly tilts to his shoulder and Will flinches in the alien pain of expectation.

“Chiyoh…” he warns. One of her eyes shuts and he sees her aim the gun in the spot she last shot him.

“ _Hannibal!_ ” Will says, the panic rising in his chest. He still hasn’t looked at Hannibal directly. He isn’t sure if he _can._ But he watches his hand settle on Chiyoh’s shoulder and the gun lowers slightly.

“Will,” Hannibal says.

He keeps his eyes a couple of feet to the left of Hannibal’s face but even then he can see the betrayal on his face, hear it in his inflection.

Hannibal steps into his line of vision and Will stares at the collar of his shirt. His head is ringing with alarm bells but his body doesn’t move.

“I gave you the gift of trust,” Hannibal says.

Will looks up hesitantly. Into his eyes, deep in them. “I’m giving you all the consideration I ever have.”

“To what end, Will?”

Will steps backward, away from Hannibal’s presence.

“Do you want to leave? Do you want me to go?”

Will shakes his head and his voice comes out weak. “D-don’t.” 

“You don’t want to forget about me? I should let you go home, shouldn’t I?”

Will clenches his teeth hard with the fire sizzling up his chest with memories. 

“You couldn’t bear to leave me either,” he whispers but isn’t sure he means it.

Hannibal sways on his feet for a moment steps back to look at Chiyoh while he talks to Will again. 

“Do you know what kind of information Chiyoh has brought to us, Will?”

Will keeps his eyes on Hannibal. “I reckon something to do with Alana and Margot. Who, just to clear things up, I’m not working with.”

“The evidence shows a different light,” Chiyoh says.

“Evidence? Is it not _evident_ that I ran away with Hannibal?” Will snaps at her.

“It is evident that Hannibal was not informed of your little encounter. I tried to clean it up, you know, but the traces you left were sloppy,” she says.

Hannibal puts a calming hand back on Chiyoh’s shoulder and Will doesn’t even like the look of it.

“There have been armed men and investigators at our Florence apartment. Not _polizia_ , not FBI. Familiar faces, though,” Hannibal says. 

Will prickles. “Who?”

“Zeller and Price. Lass. I reckon others close by. I can only imagine the evidence they found, can’t you?” Hannibal says.

“They work for the FBI,” Will says. 

“They do. Records say they are on a short leave. I reckon a side hobby of sorts, hush hush based on their outfits.” Will notices the camera hanging off of Chiyoh’s shoulder.

“Shit,” Will mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. He wanted to avoid the idea for as long as he could. “A private task force, huh? All for us.”  
  


“Aren’t we special.” Hannibal smiles.

“There’s little to avenge of me. _You’re_ rather special.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could still claim to have been manipulated by me,” Hannibal says. The silence that follows is deafening. Will glares at Chiyoh when she looks between the two of them with her head held high.

Hannibal grabs his coffee and lounges on the desk chair to look out the window. He won't look at Will. A knife would hurt less.

“Well, what’s to be done about this?” Will asks.

“I don’t know, Will, what exactly?”

“I reckon we should go to America. Together,” he sighs, tipping his head back against the wall. He feels the urge to bang his head but stops himself. 

Chiyoh’s blank expression looks to be equivalent to an eye roll before she walks out the door, bumping Will’s bad shoulder. 

He takes a big swig of his coffee and winces at his burnt tongue. Hannibal stares out the window, poised but relaxed, unbuttoning his suit to fall over his hips.

“This feels like some deja vu. We’re really going to do this again? You shutting down, me growing desperate enough to do something stupid? Now and forever, what we have to expect from this? Closest we can get to a happily ever after a cyclical fight, a back and forth. You ought to stab me for real, it will be much quicker forgiveness. Then we can go back to how we were. For those few days, I mean. What a honeymoon we got.” Will hears his voice shake.

Hannibal reaches out a hand without looking at Will. Will steps forward instinctively, wondering if Hannibal is taking him up on the stabbing offer.

He just wraps a hand around Will’s waist from where he’s sitting and leans his head on his stomach to continue looking out the window. Will wraps one hand around his shoulders.

-

They don’t sleep, but they lay there for a long while, Hannibal stroking his fingers through Will’s hair and Will playing with his other hand, observing each line of his fingerprints in the light of a candle. 

“Will you forgive me?”

“It seems I have a lot of trouble _not_ forgiving you.”

Will doesn’t know if he should be happy about that. 

“We could keep going, travel some more, let them lose our trail again and start to give up. They only have so much capability. It’s why I made us leave,” he says.

Hannibal stays quiet.

“But you won’t. You _want_ to go and risk it all,” Will says.

“You need to relax more.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Life just keeps happening.”

“You’re equipped to handle it.” Hannibal taps his forehead.

“When are we leaving then? And how? Tell me the plan now so I can better equip myself.”

“You’ll travel with Chiyoh by plane.”

“Excuse me?” Will says.

“You will pretend to be her husband.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“You are both youthful and attractive and it will be a fair disguise. A couple coming back from vacation.”

“She’s going to shoot me.”

“She’s not going to shoot you.”

“She is.” Will nods with certainty, then he furrows his eyebrows. “I have a bad feeling about us splitting up.”

“Well, people are on the lookout for ‘murder husbands’.”

“Don’t even say that term, God.” 

He sits up and leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Or do you just feel safer sending me off with Chiyoh instead of you?”

“I will meet you in America as soon as we can.”

It is far too imprecise for Will. “And then what?”

“It’s all up to you,” Hannibal says.

“I don’t have an ulterior motive, Hannibal. Don’t leave me. Anywhere. I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you after something like that.”

“Okay.”

“You can blame my fear, okay? Not my feelings for you. We’re on the same side. We’re, God, we’re more than that.”

“This is one of those times where you need to relax,” Hannibal says, stroking over his back. “Let the moments that come wash over you. Don’t look forward anymore than you need to or you’ll leave me here completely.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

Hannibal speaks directly into his hair. “Will, you must relinquish your past to move on with me, start a fire on the wick and watch it be eaten up into ash. If we run you’ll only fester in all of the people with you on their mind. Do you understand me?”

Slowly, Will nods. Whether he’s ready or not.

-

“You know you can’t take that thing on a plane, right?”

Chiyoh packs her rifle into its suitcase piece by piece. Will goes to grab her travel bag and she quickly says, “don’t touch my things.”

He puts his hand up in innocence and waits for her, kicking around the apartment impatiently. 

“Is it an apology you are waiting for?” she asks.

“Are you going to give me one?”

“No.”

“Well, then I guess there’s no point.”

“You might thank me instead. I saved you.”

“It wasn’t being _saved_ that got me to where I am today.”

“Are you still waiting for an apology from Hannibal, too?” she asks. She grabs her own suitcase, leaving the rifle behind, and begins walking down the stairs.

“We don’t exactly apologize to each other.”

“What a prized possession of his you are, his _Nakama_ , sitting pretty in the cage along every bump of the train.”

“You rat me out for lying to him and then criticize me for being too passive?”

She doesn’t reply as they walk outside to the car waiting for them. Hannibal steps close and passes her a mug.

“ _Kava,_ sweet,” he says with a smile. He puts a hand on her cheek and for a moment Will can picture her as just a little girl staring up at him. 

“We will reconvene across the sea in more satisfactory conditions this time, or so I hope,” he announces.

Hannibal smiles kindly and takes his hand off Chiyoh. She climbs into the cab and Hannibal sighs, then sets a hand on Will’s cheek. It’s soft. It hurts. He doesn’t have the ability to reach out anymore. He crawls in the car with the woman he hopes won’t try to kill him with a gun stashed somewhere in her things.

The car moves and Will can feel the tether between Hannibal and him pull and pull until he can’t see the other man anymore. He keeps searching, feeling the absence stronger than he’d expected to. He thinks about turning the car around, telling Hannibal to follow him.

“You could have done a better job at lying to him,” Chiyoh says, pulling Will back into their last conversation.

“Or you could have just not stalked me. How’d you find us anyway?”

“I return to Castle Lecter so that I don’t forget where I came from. And for the game, when I miss it.”

“You are not free, then.”

“I am as free as I can be. The cage door is open. I fly around. Hannibal gave me a fund and I can venture further and further. You can understand the attachment more than most, the ties on your leg.”

“I can,” he sighs, looking out the window again.

“You discovered the new means of influence.”

“Are you proud of me?”

“No.”

He clenches his teeth. “Going to tell me why not?”

“You use love _as_ your weapon. It is not the selflessness of familial love, and never will be.”

“And you would know about that, I guess? Being his overprotective _maid_?”

In the silhouette, her eyes look pitch black, even as she leans in to speak quieter. 

“You won’t control the beast, you’ll make him escape with new strength and new wrath.”

“I don’t _want_ to—”

“Reckless boy, you will give up nothing.”

“You don’t know what I’ve given up,” he sneers.

“I do, actually. I don’t know that _you_ know where your care lies. We’ll see, won’t we?”

He whips his head away from her judgmental gaze and seethes. He’s looking for something he can’t find on the passing streets. 

-

They hold hands on and off through the airport and he tries not to squeeze too hard. All he can think about is the pain in his shoulder and the fact that he might never see Hannibal again. The anxiety alone leaves him exhausted but unable to sleep, unable to even fade into his imagination.

Chiyoh doesn’t sleep either. She stares forward with a serene expression. Will wonders if she feels the need to be on guard. He supposes that’s who he is now, who he’s always been to an extent. He wonders what Hannibal would do if he hurt Chiyoh. Perhaps an ‘atta boy’.

It’s a dark, frosty night in Virginia and he’s considering booking a room at the overpriced airport hotel, it _is_ Hannibal’s money after all, but Chiyoh seems to be on a mission, dragging him outdoors. He follows her with an annoyed huff and pulls up his collar as far as it can go. He’s been in this airport countless times, dread in the pit of his stomach at the idea of crime scenes and presentations and _sociability._ There’s a different kind of dread in his stomach tonight.

Chiyoh takes him all the way to a car rental place and he storms ahead of her to take his pick. He returns outside with keys in hand and Chiyoh is leaning against the car and staring at him very pointedly.

“You know, I have a great deal of scars from you alone, but I’m not so sure where your hostility has come from.”

“It isn’t personal,” she says.

“Well then, what _business_ do you have in hating me?”

“I don’t expect Hannibal to be kept in a cage…” she begins and Will gives her an eye roll so dramatic that he has to step back a pace at the tired metaphor. She powers on.

“...but you make a point to shake the cage and loosen the screws and then you bury yourself into a hole of self-denial of what’s to come. You were supposed to keep him in check!”

“I’m not his—” 

“ _If_ he loses you, he will go to extremes the likes of which we have never seen. I have seen him heartbroken before and no amount of searching will let you see _that_. I want you to save him from himself.”

Will freezes, then steps closer. “Chiyoh, what’s he going to do?”

“Hannibal does not stick to one activity at a time, he is a master multitasker, and he does not forget.”

“Chiyoh…”

She reaches for his left hand with a gentle graze and after a moment, Will yanks away. He looks in her eyes for some truth and slams his palm on the hood of the car with a bang.

“The fucking bastard.” He reaches for the car door but Chiyoh stops him.

“Let me drive. You’re growing unstable. You’re _both_ growing unstable.” 

Will thinks about all the ways that Hannibal’s impulsivity would alert their arrival. It’s reckless and it’s cruel and it’s just something Hannibal would do.

“He’s going after my wife and kid, isn’t he?” he growls.

“The ones you abandoned?” She bumps him out of the way with her hip and climbs in the driver's seat.

He stalks around the car. “I had little choice in the matter it seemed.” 

“None of us have much choice around him,” she agrees bitterly _._

“ _This_ is how we forgive,” he mutters, rubbing a hand up the side of his face.

“You even love in violence.”

“Why do you help us? Why do you do this?” he asks. “You don’t even _like_ the kill.”

“It is a necessity. If Hannibal needs to kill these _people_ then so be it. If it takes away the nightmares of the past and lets him settle down with you then I can settle in his form of peace, too. Before you destroy the world completely.”


	11. Florida, USA

The road before him disappears and it’s like he’s driving straight through the ocean, but it’s only the fatigue blurring his eyes and the surreal sight of the Seven Mile Bridge. He angles down until the fender is shooting up water over the sides, running past the windows in thin enough streams that they can see the world in a blur. The water offers resistance, but he presses on the gas to make up for it.

“Will.”

A good day for fishing, he thinks. Warm for the fall. He wonders what the season’s been like. He never gained enough knowledge in this area, was always asking his neighbours who condescended him with their born and bred heritage to the town.

“Pull over.”

“What?”

“You’re going to send us into the ocean.”

“We’re almost there, all right?” He blinks and centres himself. Chugs some of the coffee they picked up, cold and bitter now.

Many images race through his mind as he closes the distance to his old summer home with Molly and Wally. Their corpses, for one, filled with spite and what the Dragon couldn’t do. Hannibal being ripped apart by their dogs. Molly with her gun and little fear, aiming at the smug cannibal who took her husband away.

Somehow, the most surprising thing is pulling up to a crowd of half-memorable dogs and nothing but Molly’s head peeking out past the door.

He parks then freezes, even as he hears the shuffling of fur against the car. Molly moves her head around, trying to see past the tinted windows. He shrinks down.

“This feels awkward,” Chiyoh observes.

Will still has his hands on the steering wheel, flexing until his knuckles go white. He hasn’t thought about Molly for months, or if he does it’s buried down quickly.

“Hannibal isn’t here,” Chiyoh says, stating the obvious.

“He will be.”

When Will looks up again, Molly has stepped outside a step further to show a rifle. He’s proud that she’s cautious. How could she not be after everything? He wonders if there’s a small chance she would use the gun on him. He’s almost positive she still thinks he’s a sweet man at the core, but he doesn’t know what Lounds or anyone from the taskforce might have said to her.

He opens the door quickly and practically throws himself into the swarm of dogs. Max, Harley, Buster. Winston. They remember him, and his heart aches at the loyalty. Something he can’t seem to gain from anybody else. He resists the urge to fall into a pile of fur because he recognizes the clatter of Molly’s gun falling to the ground. He looks up at her in a jerky, forced movement.

“What the fuck?”

His mouth twitches in what should be a smile.

“Have I gone fucking blind?” she asks. 

“You refuse to wear your glasses still?” He says. It comes out weak and questioning.

She walks closer, down the patio steps and stands a couple of feet away to just stare at his face. A million questions cross behind her eyes.

“You’re kidding me,” she says. 

He doesn’t know what to do or say so he opens his arms for a hug.

“Oh, no,” she says with a dry and startlingly familiar laugh, looking at him up and down. “You need to tell me the excuse of the ages right now.”

“I don’t think the truth would fly with you, honestly,” he says, putting his arms down.

Any semblance of a smile drops off her face and she looks wary.

“Tell me anyway, or else I’ll think the worst. What, though, did you really just elope?” She looks behind his shoulder with a confused expression and he immediately begins shaking his head.

“No, no, she’s not…”

“Hello, I’m Chiyoh. Nice to meet you.” He watches Chiyoh shake Molly’s hand with wide, cautious eyes. “Believe me, I am not his wife.”

“Then who are you?” Molly asks, blunt.

“A friend,” Will says. He gives Chiyoh a warning gaze but Chiyoh just looks rather awkward like she doesn't know what to do with her arms now that she isn't carrying a gun. She gives a curt nod and steps away to give them privacy. Molly only watches her for another second.

“So you thought I was…” Will begins.

“I don’t know what I thought, Will. I have Jack asking me if I’ve had contact with you at all and tabloids coming to tell me really horrid things and asking me the craziest shit you’ll ever hear. I got charged with assault for punching a journalist in the face. I guess I assumed you were dead if it really was that maniac like everyone says. And now you just come back with this random woman?”

He winces. “Should we go inside?”

“No. We can do this here. I don’t want Wally to see you.”

“I understand, I do.”

“If you’re not going to give me answers then what the hell are you out here for? How do I know you’re not a maniac, too?” She asks. 

“You don’t,” Will says emphatically.

“Guess I should grab my gun. More serial killers coming to my house?”  
  
He keeps his expression steady. “I’m sorry to bother you, Molly.”

Her face crumples slightly. “Will,” she says in a pleading tone. “Give me something here. God, you know how hard it is not to think about you? _Are_ you okay?”

He shrugs. “Life’s been crazy. An understatement.”

“You didn’t actually… I knew you wouldn’t go with him, Will. I read up on him and if you needed to get away from that then I understand. Like, holy mother fucker on a boat. Normal people just leave a note, you know? I don’t want to think the worst of you. Well, sometimes I do.”

“Molly…” he feels drumming in his chest.

“You didn’t, right?” she asks. He notices how tired her eyes look under too grown-out bangs.

At the sound of gravel crunching, he sighs. He knew he wasn’t wrong, he knows Hannibal’s design. All of this is Hannibal's design.

“Will.”

“Listen, Molly…”

She doesn’t listen, she dives away from him, clambering up the stairs and she’s got the gun fast, shooting without hesitation.

He runs after her and grabs the barrel just as it shoots again and he has the immediate dread for tinnitus, but he holds on still. Something bangs him on the nose, _hard,_ in time with Molly’s grunt and it takes everything in him to grab the gun right out of her hands before she can hit him again. 

A dog bites his hand and he curses, lifting the gun above his head to bring it down on the source before he remembers what he’s doing. He falls backward, stumbling down the stairs and landing on his ass. He throws the gun behind him as hard as he can. It goes off, but he doesn’t see where. He can’t see much of anything but fur and movement.

“Oh dear,” comes Hannibal’s voice. Will instantly feels relief. His voice doesn’t sound like one of a man who’s been shot. His eyes focus on the Mustang in the difference, window shot to shatters. He shakes his head as if it might get the ringing out of his ear.

He whips his head around where the dogs are dispersing, one he doesn’t recognize still growling and prowling closer and closer to Will, laying vulnerable on the ground.

Hannibal makes a _ts_ sound and claps and the dog shrinks back. That’s exactly what he and Molly did with their dogs, Will thinks. He gets a hand in Hannibal’s so he can be pulled up to standing.

Will wipes the blood off his lip. He looks around but Molly is out of sight already.

“She broke your nose,” Hannibal says with a smile that shouldn’t be there.

“You…” Will begins but has to breathe in heavily.

“I only wished to meet her. That didn’t go as planned.” Hannibal leans in further. “She’s feisty.”

“She’s smart,” Will says.

“Don’t try to make me jealous now,” Hannibal says. He looks far too pleased.

Will pulls up his shirt to stop the steady stream of blood.

“You don’t reckon she’s gone somewhere to call the police or grab another gun, do you? Perhaps both?” Hannibal asks.

“Police will take twenty minutes,” Will says. “A gun, she won’t hesitate. Wally’s home.”

He pulls Hannibal closer to the deck and away from the windows.

“Oh, I’d love to meet him, as well.”

Will gives him a dismal look.

“Shall we?” Hannibal says, walking off around the house like a friendly guest looking for the party. Everything will be ruined, Will thinks. He jogs closer and takes Hannibal’s hand.

“She’s going to grab Wally then make a run for it out the back, but she’ll shoot if she gets the shot.”

Hannibal’s hand is limp in Will’s. He pauses and looks down at it. There’s nothing stopping him from yanking it, blackmailing, begging, pulling, fighting. His lack of agency isn't much of a truth. He wishes it was. It would make it easier if Hannibal forced him to do it, so the pleasure he felt could be merely a side effect. He’s here and his blood is feeling hot anyway. He finds a part inside of him that wants Hannibal to pull him forward, spill blood and change his old family. It feels like letting them in for the first time because God knows he didn't give much of himself before. Barely a part that was true. 

The biggest part of himself that is true is currently holding his hand.

He walks ahead of Hannibal without a plan. He doesn't know what he might do but leaving feels unsatisfactory.

He goes straight to the back and kicks in the weak latch, quickly hiding behind the wall when a shot follows in its place. Hannibal hides on the other side of the doorway.

“Molly, tell Walter to go hide,” Will says. 

“What, you wanna _spare_ him?” she yells. “I’m going to shoot you crazy sons of bitches!”

She just might, he thinks. And he realizes very quickly that he’d much rather kill her, see blood spilt, take in her expression when she finally sees him. She asked for the truth. He searches in himself for something that tells him to stop before he makes another mistake. He hears Chiyoh’s voice in his head, _we’ll see, won’t we?_

It terrifies him more that he doesn’t care enough. Did he ever care? Or did he just think that he ought to feel shame over all those years? Is it buried under layers of self-denial and Hannibal?

“I believe we haven’t properly met,” Hannibal calls out.

“ _Fuck_ you, you nasty bastard.”

“You can call me Hannibal,” he replies, amused. Then, in a lower tone to Will, “she’s not very nice.”

A bullet hits the doorway near Hannibal’s head, sending splinters of wood flying in the air.

“So how’d you guys meet?” Hannibal asks. “Shared hobby?”

Another bullet hits the doorframe, getting lodged instead.

Will looks around the deck. Chairs, shed, barbeque. He inches along the side, trying to remember what planks creak.

“I am genuinely curious. Will never identified with the idea of family, and did not pursue many suitors. You must be special. And I can see it. Look at this paradise, how peaceful it must be to have the sea so close, all this space for things you love. You gave him something lighter, didn’t you? A laugh, some small-town charm. I am charmed, my dear.”

Will opens the barbeque and feels rather than hears the click of the latch because of the ringing in his ear. Blood from his nose splatters on the deck. He waits until Molly starts talking.

“I’m not charmed by your creepy European bullshit. You ruined his life. You think there’s not going to come a day that he regrets this with all that’s in him? Does that feel good to you?”

“As a matter of fact, he’s very skilled at denial,” Hannibal says. Will shoots him a glare.

He loosens the valve connecting the propane to the barbeque until it’s barely hanging on, then he loosens the cap partway.

“You’re a monster,” Molly says.

“I do believe he loved you, in his own way. He found happiness in his little ways, didn’t he? His tastes are rugged and fresh, he belongs to the wild. Do you belong to the wild? You pride on your instincts, don't you? Is that why it’s so hard to be wrong?”

Will searches for the barbeque lighter and finds one in the pocket of a lawn chair. He smells for the gas. Molly is quiet for a moment more.

Her voice is different, quieter, not directed at them. 

“Jack? They’re back. Get ready. The police are coming but I don’t—no, goodbye, Jack.” Will hears her phone clatter to the table.

“That was very rude, Molly,” Hannibal says.

“Does it sound like I give a fuck?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Stop mocking me and come around the doorway if you really want to fight.” 

“I thought we were having a nice chat. Say how was your wedding? Was it in the fall?”

“Shut _up_! Will? Why the hell aren’t you talking?”

Will looks at Hannibal and Hannibal looks at Will.

“Will?” 

There’s an uncharacteristic feebleness to her voice now, and he can imagine her closing in on herself in fear. She’s realizing that Will doesn’t just have no control over Hannibal, but that he might be the dangerous one after all. The wild card.

“I reckon I deserve some truth at least,” she blurts out. “I’m confused, Will. Walter is scared. Did you always want to do this? Did I miss it so badly? Did I marry a… a fucking serial killer? Oh my God, what the fuck is happening right now?”

Will pushes the barbeque on its wheels until it’s close to the house.

“What’s he doing?” Molly asks. "Hey!" Her voice gets distant as she moves back to hide.

Will lights it at the same time as he pulls the clothe curtain through the cracked window and then he dives and rolls away. The barbeque buzzes for a moment and then the pressure gives way until there are big puffs of flame heating his cheeks, the whistle of gas audible. It comes out of the propane tank in pressurized bursts, singeing low hanging branches and the side of the house, the dry autumn leaves catching and consumed by ash in seconds. He stares with wide eyes and hope when the flames angle into the open window and climb up the curtain hungrily. He can barely hear the yelling, he only stares at the fire show in front of him, perplexed by the sight.

The barking from behind him is gone, all the dogs have run away. He can only hope that they’ll find good homes as a result of their training.

Molly emerges on the porch and takes her shot at Will. Will takes cover under his arms but Hannibal’s arms around her make her miss. She clings onto the gun with her life, tears in her eyes as she jerks back and forth in his grip, stomping on his toes and getting elbows close to his groin.

The propane leak fire begins to die out but it’s successfully caught the curtains inside and is spreading fast.

“What would you like to do, Will?”

It looks like Hannibal is embracing Molly and she starts to scream at the top of her lungs. The neighbours aren't close enough, Will knows that.

Will stands on trembling legs and looks at Molly, still struggling. She’s strong, she gets her arms out of Hannibal’s grasp but he’s quick to regain control and she’s going nowhere when he has her wrists twisted. He doesn't like seeing her held down like that, it makes something cork his throat.

“Will, don’t do it,” Molly says. “Wally, think about _Wally_. I'm all he has!"

Suddenly, Hannibal lets go of her. Molly stumbles forward toward Will and stands in a ready stance, but he’s still frozen. He can see it in her eyes, that she’s either going to run or attack him. He waits, ready, and then she drops to the porch and spins the gun on Hannibal in a quick motion.

Blood splatters the porch of the house, one drop sizzles in the fire, Will can hear it as clear as day in his own mind. Molly hits the ground with a perfect headshot and he spots the tree Chiyoh took cover in.

“Oh, fuck,” Will blurts out. She twitches and blood pours and the more it pours the less she twitches.

The crackle of flames warm his neck as he stands and stares at the blood pooling, filling the deck. 

“Mom?”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. Wally’s voice is a crackle deeper with the grasps of puberty but he sounds like a kid with that scared little voice. Will wonders if he felt it the moment his mom dropped dead, if it was like something died inside of him too. There’s nothing Will can do to bring her back.

He’s surprised to hear light footsteps. Wally’s face is blank. A shock reaction, even compared to his usual stoicism. He stares at the corpse on the floor and Will sees it through his eyes, the flesh and brains and blood draining out in startling detail.

“Mom?” Wally asks again as if he thinks it might all be a prank. Will sees the very moment that his breath catches.

Ash flies over his head. It’s beginning to crackle on the wood inside as it spreads and gains fury, destroying everything in its path.

Wally’s parents are dead and Will feels the weight of obligation like an aching reminder. He even took away Wally’s house, made his dogs run away, destroyed it all. What a life to live, growing up attached to Will and traumatized in this way. 

When Will was a kid travelling from boatyard to boatyard they always took along a couple of dogs. Unlicensed mutts, often disobedient and snappy from their lack of dog training. Will’s dad wasn’t going to spend money on the vet. When a dog got sick, he’d shoot it right between the eyes, not hesitating for a second so the dogs didn’t feel stress in their last moments. It was quick. They left the corpses scattered on grassy fields to be eaten by other animals, the circle of life. Then they’d save the next stray they happened upon and Will would hope for a better life.

Will picks up Molly’s gun and shoots Wally in the head. He doesn’t think Walter realizes what’s happening before he’s on the ground. A humane kill, a wasted family.

Sometimes death is easier, he thinks. He has let go of his paternal dreams and succumb to dysfunction, but he feels a strange prickling of responsibility for Wally anyway. Enough to make this decision. He _changed_ them, and he changed in response, he already knows. It will never be the same again.

The few years they spent together fit in a box in his brain and now he can tuck it away. 

The child flops over with an impact so light you'd think he was made of skin and air. Will’s hand still rests on the trigger. No taking back that decision, either.

He is grateful for the role they played in his own growth. He doesn’t know if he regrets them being collateral damage, but he acknowledges how fucked up it is. He looks at the bodies. Abel Gideon killed his wife and family. He didn’t kill any children, though. Will has seen the three children he connected to become nothingness, it ought to count as a curse at this point.

If there was any doubt before, he definitely belongs in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He has earned a top spot. His psyche is still undefinable. He should feel something akin to regret in the pit of his stomach. He's felt it before. Is it hiding on him?

There is no coming back from this. No bringing them back to life and being the hero who kept Hannibal away from his poor family.

He doesn’t know if he would have killed Molly. He was standing on the edge between surrender and a cut, but which way he would have fallen will always be unknown. He can pretend it would have happened, appease Hannibal. Hannibal might be proud that Will killed Wally. What he might not know is he killed Wally because he couldn’t stand to leave him alone. They both had to change. No one should be left behind in that purgatory of change.

He begins to shiver despite the heat of the fire. Hands rub his shoulders and he leans into Hannibal’s chest.

It takes a moment for Will to choke out words.

“Look at them,” he whispers.

“Lovely,” Hannibal agrees. Blood floods the deck, drips through the cracks and stains each rivet. It may never come out for good. Their injuries match. Wally almost looks like he’s curling closer to Molly. The holes in their heads look like invasions.

Will steps into the house, momentarily shocked by the roaring flames, by how much they’ve spread. There’s only a portion of the kitchen not burnt and from it, he manages to grab a knife and a container.  
  
“The police may be soon,” Chiyoh says, suddenly behind him. She doesn’t look at him when he turns. She looks decidedly away from the scene on the porch, though her face doesn't give anything else away.

“Kill them, then,” Will says. “You have no problem with it, _clearly_.”

Will wastes no time in cutting open Molly’s chest and spreading her ribs with his bare hands. Sharp, jagged, messy work, desperate to finish. More blood gushes out, already up his forearms and covering his knees. He groans through the effort. He works at it like a job he’s done his entire life and then takes her heart. It feels cliche, but it feels right. He could take her stomach and remember her full-body laughs, could take her brain and pick at her catalogue of endearing trivia, could take her liver for every wine night they had, could take her arms for how they wrapped around him at night—

Even he can’t ignore the sirens. The entire world turns red and blue, flashing back and forth until it’s only red, red, red, red.

Walter over his shoulder and Molly half-dragging behind him under her arm, he almost trips down the steps with them. He powers through the grass, feeling blood drip down him like sweat. He throws Walter into the water first and takes a great deal of effort to toss Molly’s over the edge of the beach. The blood spreads across the waterways, red, red, red. It spreads in the water and loses its vibrance with each passing second. He stares, shocked at the sight.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, Hannibal behind him. And behind Hannibal, Chiyoh, behind the wheel having driven across the grass to him. 

“Back seat, c’mon. I appreciate the foresight to get tinted windows,” Hannibal says, and Will feels a swipe across his cheek that comes back covered in blood. Hannibal admires the smudge of colour. More is splattered across his face like tiny freckles.

“Her heart,” Will mutters, and runs across the yard. The heat from the fire makes him dizzy, a dazzling show that will soon engulf it all and burn everything of theirs to the ground. Who will care? Walter’s grandparents, who never showed him a shred of kindness anyway? 

He holds the jar in his lap in the car, sitting up straight and tense while he feels the blood crust over his skin. He feels a quiet sense of power to realize that it’s still warm on his thigh.

“Come back to reality, Will,” Hannibal says.

“Oh, I’m long gone,” Will mutters. And he is. If there are feelings below the surface, he doesn’t want to know what they are, how they are. He doesn’t want to think about the Devil directing his every move until every piece of darkness becomes something he loves. He doesn’t want to be afraid. He doesn’t want to break into pieces and ooze out the cracks. He wants to protect his boundaries as much as he wants to destroy them completely. He wants nothing that he can name, just to be taken on a path that doesn’t hurt more than it's worth. Has he earned that?

He can’t help but look at the police officers—dead on the ground—in his periphery as they drive back to the highway, and that alone gives him enough information to see the entire scene in his head. Hannibal, strong and poised, not hesitating for a second. Chiyoh, every shot suddenly conflicted, a ringing in her ear that will stay with her ever since she witnessed that little boy get a bullet in his head.

-

Hannibal has to wash him in the shower. The only movement that Will has made is to put the heart in the mini-fridge. He looks at Hannibal with expectation.

“There is no stove,” Hannibal says. 

Will keeps staring at him. 

“I will buy a cooktop.” He alters.

Will feels calm and he feels immovable. Hannibal lifts every limb and pushes him every distance he needs to go and Will feels every creak of his limbs, only just starting to loosen by the water. Hannibal's nails scratch against his scalp when he washes his hair, a bit too rough. There’s an endless red slipping out of his pores. Hannibal cleans his nose carefully and then when they’ve stepped into the cold air, without warning, Hannibal breaks his nose again. 

Like the slap he didn’t know he needed, Will returns to his body. He yells out and hits his palm on the counter over and over again. He curses a few times and resists the urge to prod at the injury. Logically, he knows it’s realigned, but he’d like to punch Hannibal in the face for making him put up with that. A piece of him slips back and he looks down to see his clean skin. Clean on the outside.

Hannibal strokes his cheek and Will manages to make eye contact and take in his first normal breath.

“I hope this doesn't heal too ugly,” Hannibal says.

Will glowers at him until Hannibal just looks amused and kisses his cheek.

“The radiance of a thousand fires. I’d like to burn down the world with you.”

“You owe me,” Will whispers.

“I do. For now, I will go buy your ingredients.”

Will pulls on his new clothes, dragging them along his sensitive skin. Hannibal leaves the room and Will takes his time staring in the mirror at the dark bruises under his eyes and along his nose. It aches but it is settled.

Slowly, he steps out of the room with his hands already up in mercy and a gun cocks.

“When did you even get that?” Will asks.

“When you slept in the car.”

“He wouldn’t just kill you. He would take the rest of your life. He likes to reciprocate that way.”

“I would give it with honor.”

“Would you stand by as he shone his wrath down on the world? Do you know how he feels about me? I mean _really_ know, that he’s forgiven me my whole life and still keeps me close?” Will asks.

“That’s why you aren’t dead already,” she says.

“You thought I was going to keep him in check? What kind of person do you expect Hannibal to fall for? Why don’t you follow us both around, clean up each time? Are you _free_ or do you just choose _honor?_ ”

“You are worse. Even Hannibal wouldn’t have—”

“He _did!_ ” Will yells. His arms fall to his side. He remembers Abigail’s blood hitting his cheeks, a rain of pain. He wonders if Margot managed to have her baby in another world, one without Hannibal. “He already did.”

She stays quiet in her mistake.

“It’s different to see in person, isn’t it? You see the nitty-gritty, the pleading and pain and the bodily fluid, such a lack of dignity. Sometimes you need to squint to see the beauty. I should have liked to do more with them, replace the ugliness. Because I owe them. There is no practicality. Not in death, there’s never been practicality in death. It’s always for elegance. If we can accept death as one of the great eternal forms of life and transformation.”

He dives the second he anticipates the shot, behind the bed. She doesn’t reach the trigger, and he doesn’t know if she would have pressed it if he hadn’t moved. He lays on the ground and looks up at the water-stained ceiling. The memory of a burst pipe. He imagines it happening again, dripping down on him and washing it all away.

“It’s a different reality with Hannibal. Why don’t you just leave?” he yells. "Make a new family if you want it so badly."

She’s quiet for a while.

“Transportation to your next destination. That is the only time I will return if you decide to use it. The rest of the fires are too grand to put out. I don’t expect to see you again.”

The door clicks. He walks toward the window. If there are no witnesses, he will kill her now, he swears it. Choke her like she choked her prisoner, throw the gun she hides behind away, watch Hannibal cook her with pride. He moves the blinds and scans the yard.

And sees a family unpacking their bags. Chiyoh is already gone and it is not feasible so it is not meant to be.

-

Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised at her absence. He sets up an electric stove, two portable burners and brings in bags full of ingredients and pans and utensils. Will watches him fondly as Hannibal moves the television on the ground and makes a kitchen of the motel dresser.

“I have to say, I liked her,” Hannibal says, pointing a spatula at him.

“Hannibal, don’t.”

“I expect you will feel a burden off of your shoulders,” Hannibal says.

“The weight has shifted.”

“We share the weight, Will. Do not let yourself fall without coming to me.”

Hannibal puts the heart into the pan, cut into slices. Braised and stuffed. The aroma fills the small room and will likely stay there. There is no ventilation and Will feels like it’s seeping into his skin instead. He wishes he could make this meal but he doesn’t know the first thing about cooking heart.

“They’re going to know we’re coming now,” Will says.

“I do not like surprises much anymore. We will give them a fair warning of what’s to come,” Hannibal says.

“So they can buy more assassins, you mean?”

“Assassins are only human.” 

“Maybe the psychopaths in the mix will get on with us.”

“Are you keeping track of your kill list? Tell me, Will, do you count all of my murders as being on your list?”

“Yes. Every single one.”

“And I, yours. They blend together. In fact, it feels like I have taken away another one of your children.”

Will clenches his jaw. “It was a humane shot.”

“Yes. You hid behind the gun.”

“I’m ashamed.”

“You owe them more, don’t you?” Hannibal sparks up a flame on the burner, engulfing the meat for a quick second.

“There’s nothing I can do, Hannibal. They were a means to an end. I set them on fire then let them drown. If we’re lucky, some fish will get a nibble and they’ll flow downstream, surpass the rocks and end in the ocean. I gave them the push I could.”

“You did well.”

“I’m not sure who I am right now.”

“Eat your meal,” he says. Will is passed a plate and he curls up his legs on the bed to dig in. He savours every bite. It’s gamey and subtle. Salty.

When his plate is empty he stares at it in dismay. Gone. Digesting. He doesn’t know if he’s more bothered by the idea that he’s the kind of man to kill his own family, or at his own calmness in the face of it. Nonetheless, there’s a part of him that’s sad that Molly will never know him for real. He recognizes the selfishness in his actions, and then he looks at Hannibal and understands why.

He pushes the dirty dishes on the dresser and then turns off the lights before stepping close to Hannibal. He puts his head on Hannibal’s shoulder to speak to him in a low voice.

“If I was less conjoined with you I would probably be dead, and if I became anymore connected, I think I’d fade away.”

Hannibal puts his head atop his and stays quiet.

“I’m on a tightrope right now,” Will says. “I know you’ll catch me. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Hannibal says. Will can hear the joy in his voice.

“By the end of this, I’ll have no one left even if I wanted to leave. See how that works out?”

Hannibal hums. “I have no other friends either.”

“We only have each other in the end.”

“I would like to be destroyed in you, but you are already in me.”

“And it barely matters.”

“You know what our next stop is?” Hannibal asks.

“I do. Why do we do it?”  
  
“Because it’s beautiful.”

“No. Why are we doing _this._ ”

“Elevating ourselves. We never truly stop becoming. I thought I had, and then I met you.”

  
“And what happens after?”

“We keep going.”

“When will it end?”

“Never.”  
  
“And if I leave?”

Hannibal hesitates.

“Would you let me?”

“No. I would take your heart.”  
  


Hannibal picks up a knife on the dresser and spins it in his palm playfully. It was used to cut Molly’s heart.

“Show me,” Will says, the words out before he can think them through. Hannibal merely wipes down the blade, then he grabs the back of Will’s neck.

“I would open you up just how I did,” Hannibal says.

Will feels the cold of the blade on his gut. It presses against the scar tissue already there, running from his left hip bone and turning up to notch his rib cage on the other side. Hannibal traces it perfectly without looking below.

"Just like you traced Abigail's scar."

"Like the door to her destiny. The girl who tried to keep her scarf on so her head wouldn't roll right off her shoulders."

Hannibal returns to his left hip bone and presses until Will grunts in pain. The thick skin has been pierced. Hannibal slices along the smile and Will grasps for his shoulder and lets out a shaky whine. He could stop it, he thinks, clenching his teeth and shaking his head as Hannibal slowly slices his abdomen. It isn't a deep cut, not like the time it happened and he felt fireworks on his insides. He can't even tell if there's blood. In his head, he can hear the patter of it spilling on the floor. It’s lasting and lasting and he feels like he must take it.

“Hannibal,” he grunts, the cut taking an eternity, a slow glide, opening up what took a great deal of effort to close and keep closed. 

When it stops, right at the tip and the blade disappears, Will gasps and pants against Hannibal’s shoulder. His legs are weak, but not enough to fall down. Distantly, he recognizes it as an associative reaction. The cut isn’t deep, the blood is minimal.

“Do you walk out again?” Will asks through clenched teeth.

“No.” 

The wet blade travels up his shirt and presses to the left side of his chest, straight up and down. It glides up and down lightly and then like before, presses just enough to scalpel through his layers of skin, hot and searing. He grunts. His hands shake as the adrenaline runs thick through his body.

Strangely, or perhaps not, he feels himself getting hard. His body seems to align with his mind, then. Drawn to the horror, to the pain. His mind is far too tired but he acknowledges it internally with a dark fascination.

“What do you eat?” Will asks.

“Everything. Every piece I can. Your heart when it’s hot. Your brain while it’s still lighting up with neurons. A feast of meat and muscle. A stew of your bones. I will lick the bowl.”

The knife lifts to his head in an almost casual manner and makes a quick slice against the scar. Will trembles more than before and blinks blood out of his eye. 

"I was always prepared for my dogs to eat my corpse. Sorry, that's weird to say right now."

Hannibal smiles fondly but stays focused.

“You gonna do every one? Claim the scars that weren’t yours?” Will asks.

“They’re all mine already.”

“What is love but scars and traces?” Will asks. “Except you take chunks.”

“If only I could drink you up and return you in one piece.”

Hannibal pulls off his shirt and Will can look down and see the slow pooling of blood. It spills in symmetry, perfectly even. 

Hannibal thumbs at his collection of bullet holes and stab wounds and traces it with the knife, light then deep to cut. Will sighs into it.

“What then?” Will asks. “Where do you go?”

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal slips the knife into Will’s hand and pulls it up to his own throat.

“Where shall I go, Will?” he asks. 

Will presses it against his neck, feels every bump of stubble on the knife edge. Will presses until the skin dips in and then loosens it. Cautiously, he makes a cut on the left side of Hannibal’s throat, barely a scratch.

“Yeah. Come after me,” Will whispers.

He looks down at his chest. He’s surprised to see all the blood, to feel the spots that are burning.

“Why’d you do that?” Will asks.

“I don’t know. Let me clean your cuts.”

Hannibal heads to the bathroom and Will stumbles to the bed.

Will lays down and shines a lamp. It’s different in the light. All the red smeared like paint. Stark contrasts with his pale skin. He finds he likes it, and also that he doesn’t know what that says about him. It stains the off-white sheets. Why does it feel tender, this burning pain? A contradiction that he settles so comfortably into the mattress awaiting care from the man who did it to him. He would let Hannibal carve him more. It will look gruesome to everyone but Hannibal, and Will enjoys the thought. Every intention behind it was love, or, their strange version of love that they haven’t even spoken aloud. It is just there and it exists.

Hannibal presses gauze against the smile on his gut, the deepest cut. The rest he rinses and cleans one by one, pushing his hair out of the way and dabbing the blood away. It feels eerily post-coital. He sits up so Hannibal can wrap a bandage all the way around his gut and the visual is strikingly familiar. 

“What was it like… with Abigail? In the time between. You see her lots?” Will asks. 

“I made sure to see her as much as I could.” Hannibal runs his hands up and down Will’s sides as if to comfort.

“What did you do together?”

“I helped her with some study material and taught her to cook for herself.”

“Sounds like the model daughter,” Will says.

“All except for one time. I came unannounced and she had smashed the locked alcohol cabinet door. She yelled some ugly truths and I nursed her through the alcohol poisoning with an IV the next day. She didn’t remember.”

“What were the ugly truths?” Will asks, but he’s ignored.

“That our plan would never work.”

“Hm.”

“She thought I was no better than her dad. And that she felt dead already.”

“She was.”

“She managed to open up the internet on the television and draft an email to you, but didn’t send it by the time I got there.”

“Maybe I’d have come with if she had managed it.”

“I believe it would have ended in catastrophe, one way or another,” Hannibal says.

“What’s happening now is a catastrophe.”

“We should sleep while we can,” Hannibal says. He’s already crawling over Will when Will grabs his arm.

“If she needed to self-destruct in such a way, was she really happy with you?”

“I believe a change of scenery would have been beneficial for dealing with trauma.”

“Would have been. You slit her throat instead.”

Hannibal gives him a pained look. It almost comes across as angry. He doesn’t try to explain. He knows he doesn’t actually need to. Instead, it's needlessly cruel that Will would bring it up now. Will knows that.

“Let’s sleep,” Hannibal repeats more forcefully.

“No. I’ll drive. We’re going now.” He can’t risk the nightmares _._

Hannibal gives him a levelled look, which Will returns with wide eyes.

“You owe me, and you will follow me,” Will says. Torn and beaten, he rises.


	12. Maryland, USA

The chill chases him to warmth, seeping down to his bones at an alarming rate. Their feet crunch through the back alley, and Will is wary of the houses that still have their lights on.

His hands cramp while he picks the lock. He dreams of a nice warm meal, three table settings, candlelight across Hannibal’s face. He convinces himself that as long as he can have that, he won’t go crazy. Not tonight. His hand trembles with the effort and a hand settles warm on his shoulder.

He'd like to think he isn't going crazy but he can't shake the sound of footsteps behind them. It isn't theirs, it isn't anyone's, it isn't _real._ Will can't shake the sensation, but he can avoid turning around at all cost.

It wasn’t easy to do this drive, not on his spine or his sanity. They spent a long day in a shitty private motel with towels overlapping the blinds to keep the sun out. Will slept until the nightmares came, so horrid that he woke as soon as it began. He blinked away the exhaustion and refused to go under. He resisted the way Hannibal stroked his hair until he couldn't find it in himself to bother. Hannibal brought him away from reality with touch, bittersweet and grasping, at least for a little while. Then, they just drove on.

Will crosses the barrier with a timid step and assesses his surroundings. The foyer exudes grace and privilege. Hannibal walks on past him with intent. The kitchen light is dim around the corner.

“Ah. Bedelia, you don’t keep like fine china. You exude the aura of porcelain itself!”

Will is too distracted to properly react. He paces around the front room on light feet, urging his brain to connect the dots. There’s no way Hannibal didn’t notice that something’s wrong, but he’s pushed ahead anyway. He stares at a small panel on the wall.

When Will follows Hannibal to the kitchen he watches Bedelia turn so slowly that Will has the urge to yank her by her hair. He watches her grasp for composure when she meets Hannibal’s gaze. Her chin is tilted up as if she’s looking down at Hannibal, and then she turns to appraise Will.

A small grin spreads on her face but doesn’t quite change the apprehension in her eye. Her voice is quiet, drawn. 

“And _you’re_ looking a little scratched up. Dropped one too many times?”

Will tries to keep his expression under control but Hannibal chuckles at her comment.

Bedelia turns back to Hannibal and opens her arms. He steps forward and kisses her on the corner of her lips, caressing her arms. Will has never seen them interact, but he hadn’t quite prepared for such intimate ease. He waits for the jealousy but is surprised to find a detached kind of curiosity.

It’s obvious what she’s trying to do when Bedelia turns to gauge Will’s reaction. He gives her a tight smile instead. It crinkles his swollen nose and he tries to ignore the pain. Hannibal looks between the two of them with wide, innocent eyes that Will hasn’t fallen for in years.

It doesn’t matter, he thinks. She’ll get her reckoning.

He lets his smile drop. Alarm bells are ringing in his mind. He hears footsteps behind him and he spins around to look. 

He sees who he didn't want to see. He shouldn't have looked. Molly, with Walter attached to her arm. His eyes are angry, defiant, but Molly’s are carefully guarded.

“All of us travelling here together is a bit suspicious, don’t you think?” she asks. It turns into quick sarcasm. “Oh, was I supposed to get the snacks?”

Something pulling his head back the other direction. Hannibal stands in front of him. Will doesn’t know how much of his instincts to trust.

“Will? Come back to me.”

Will looks past his shoulder to Bedelia. She’s observing him with fascination. He catches her sly gaze. She isn’t _afraid_.

“It’s a pretty nice house to not have a better alarm system, Doctor Du Maurier,” Will says.

“What’s the point?”

“The point is you still want to _win_ ,” Will says.

She sighs. “I can put in a great deal of effort to delay, or I can accept.” She swirls the wine in her glass and takes a sip.

“How long exactly do you have to stall?” Hannibal asks. 

She sighs and stops lying. “No time at all. All of the exits from the neighbourhood become guarded first, then they close in,” she says.

“Pretty noble of you, Bedelia. What a cause to assist,” Will says. 

He hates her, and all that she makes more difficult. Will stalks straight at her and glares down at her, before reaching past her personal space for the wine bottle.

She sighs. “Jack was insistent on my cooperation. I did not want him _here._ ”

“No interest in joining the task force?” Will asks. He takes a sip straight from the bottle.

“If you both meet your end, it will be of your own mistakes, not mine. My best course of action is cooperation.”

“On both ends,” Will fills in.

She smiles at him, eyes glazed and continues on, looking at Hannibal instead. “Though, is it a mistake if you are both aware of your recklessness?”

“You seem convinced of my downfall,” Hannibal says.

“Love _is_ blind. Or more accurately, love seems to be disorienting for you, clicking between strands of idealism and fatalism.”

“Are you so sure it won’t be true?”

“You are living in a fairytale,” she sneers.

“ _Once upon a time,_ ” Will mutters darkly. He crowds in on her so she’s trapped between him, Hannibal and the kitchen counter.

“Do you feel like you’ve been saved by the prince?” she asks him.

“Do you ever get sick of calling me his wife?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She pauses. “Jealousy exists where insecurity exists. _Is_ it the fairytale you expected?”

“I didn’t expect a fairytale. Not even close.” Will chuckles but it’s dry and bitter. He chances a glance at Hannibal and regrets it, seeing the wide-eyed smile directed right at him.

Bedelia considers him for a moment. 

“Both here on a tour of the past. You could have disappeared. Couldn’t let it go this time?” she asks.

“We couldn’t disappear completely with the past actively trying to assassinate us," Will says.

“That’s what you tell yourself. Was _everyone_ here trying to assassinate you?”

Will glares at her.

“I told you he would make you kill someone you love. And you would feel like it was the only choice you had. Was it?”

Will grinds his teeth and his nose burns in pain.

“If only you could do the same back. The scales are tipping, do you feel that?”

Will shakes his head. He doesn’t look at Hannibal but he feels his intense focus.

“You came as close to being equal to the devil as anyone could, and he found the loophole.”

She steps closer.

“How do you reciprocate this action when he doesn’t love anyone but you? If that can even be called love.”

Despite their actual positions, it feels like Will is suddenly trapped between Hannibal and Bedelia. He struggles for air. Molly and Walter are looking on in his periphery and he can’t deal with that right now. He can’t. But he looks over anyway, just a glance. And he remembers the day that he thought he could be happy without Hannibal. It feels like an eternity ago, but it really wasn’t. It was a summer day, thigh-deep in the water, and he’d made Walter laugh and laugh… 

Bedelia keeps talking when he doesn’t reply. “Were you hoping that I would end up being his passionate lover? So that you could hurt him back? You must have known this wouldn’t be the case. He respects me. He doesn’t love me.” 

Bedelia finally steps away and Will can breathe again. Just a bit. She leans against the counter and sips at her wine and stares at Hannibal. Hannibal tilts his head at her and Will, in a rare moment these days, cannot sense what emotion is beneath Hannibal’s mask.

“You are who you are. How unfortunate for everyone,” Bedelia says to him. It’s matter-of-fact, laced with slight disappointment as if she were talking about Hannibal having an annoying habit.

“I believe our guests are arriving,” Hannibal says. “Thank you for participating.”

Will blinks rapidly. He needs to be ready. And he doesn’t know what that entails.

“We’ll be upstairs,” Will says, grabbing a knife from the counter. They will need to improvise.

He follows Hannibal swiftly up the stairs. Molly follows, tracking water on the stairs. She’s just been fishing. Why wasn’t Will there?

“Hey, hotshot. No, really, you’re the hot-shot of the night. Can you really get yourself out of this one?”

“Shut up,” Will says. Hannibal spins on him, confused, but Will barrels past.

They reach Bedelia’s bedroom and close the doors and blinds. He hears a knock on the door downstairs. He peaks outside to see two black vehicles in the back alley.

There’s a hand on his shoulder that he quickly shakes off. It returns again and he yanks away completely.

“Will, don’t let Bedelia get in your head.”

“Actually, it’s currently Molly in my head,” Will says. He looks across the room. She’s smiling. He thinks of a time that he felt safe.

Hannibal pulls his face back so Will has to look him in the eyes.

“Love drives people to the extreme, doesn’t it? It isn’t something that should be defined. But Will, we feel the exact same.”

Will stares at him with wide eyes. There are people in the house, stomping up the stairs.

“You don’t know that,” Will whispers. Hannibal looks down to their feet for a moment, then over Will's shoulder. His mouth opens like he has more to say.

Steps are close now, and _fast,_ stomping along the wooden floor. Will jumps backward. They poise themselves on either side of the door, meeting eyes one last time. Will feels the panic rise in his throat, too late to reach out. This was reckless and they _knew_ it. If they get captured now, will they still find each other again? Is capture even the goal?

With one bang the doors are broken past the latch and men enter guns first.

Will sees the scene like a blueprint, barely aware of his movements. He’s only vaguely aware that his knife goes through a man’s jugular and that he catches the dying body against his chest. Elbows under armpits, he holds him up. He doesn’t feel the strain on his shoulder when he grabs the man’s gun and sprays it into the crowd, but he knows the effort is happening by the way the bullets stutter off course. He stumbles backward as bullets hit the chest of the poor assassin who was unfortunate enough to come in first. They’re both slipping to the floor.

“Jesus, is this really how you’ve always been?” Molly asks. “Some fucking big dick assassin movie this is.”

“Shut up,” Will mutters through clenched teeth. The sounds are overwhelming and he can't even count the number of people crowding past the doorway. He tries to shoot at them but he keeps going off course and the reality of their peril makes him go numb.

Something slams into his arm in a shock of pain and he drops the gun completely. He steps backward quickly and goes straight into the ensuite bathroom, dragging the bleeding corpse with him until he kicks the door shut.

He doesn’t know which blood is his, but there’s a steady gush out of his forearm that goads badly. He finds a towel and wraps it around, tying it tight with his teeth. The coarse fabric scratches along the burning wound and he lets him cry out with abandon, it’s not like it matters anymore.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._ " He paces back and forth, jumping when a bullet hits the door frame.

“Are you still feeling confident about this?” Molly asks.

“I was never feeling confident,” he shakes his head. “Oh my God, he’s going to die. He can’t fend them—I didn’t even _see_ what he—holy fuck, Molly, I have nowhere else to _go_. I have nothing _else._ ”

The shaking that starts is almost violent in nature, wracking through his whole body and jerking his head up and down. The towel beneath his arm is soaked through with blood.

Will knows those assassins were shooting to kill, Jack would make sure of it and Alana would grudgingly agree for her family, of course. Hannibal isn’t invincible, Hannibal is likely _dead._ And for all the wrong reasons. From the wrong _people._ Will should have been the one to do it, at least.

What an absurd thought to have. Most of all, he doesn’t want to live in a world without Hannibal. If it’s his end, then it’s Will’s end, too. He has a horrible thought that they might kill Hannibal and take Will to be locked up. He picks up the gun with his left hand and finds only two rounds left. He doesn't know if he has the ability to aim and shoot anyway, but he could at least muster the strength to point it at himself.

Through his own breathing and the ringing in his ear, he can't hear anything else. Not any other gunshots or people yelling or trying to get through the door. He spins the gun in his hand and takes off the safety. He always thought if Hannibal died he'd feel a shift in the air or a shift in himself. Like maybe he'd feel it right in his gut or in the pounding of his heart. That the world might slip itself of all colour. There's no way he could walk upon Hannibal's lifeless body without feeling its magnitude. Hannibal without life is an oxymoron he can barely comprehend, even in death it has to be grand. It _has_ to be. 

The door handle moves and Will tells himself to just put the barrel of the gun in his mouth already. Before they get him.

The figure that walks in isn't a stranger, though. Not even close.

It can’t be. He doesn’t want to raise his hopes only to crash and burn immediately after.

Hannibal _is_ shushing in his ear, though, telling him it’s all right and unwrapping the towel to check his arm. God, Will’s going to spend the rest of his life with the ghost of Hannibal following him around, buzzing around in his brain, close but not close enough.

There’s someone behind Hannibal’s shoulder, tall, dark. Walking closer, ready to kill him. Then, the man turns so that Will can only see the back of his head.

When Hannibal’s hand touches his skin, he thinks that reality may be a bit simpler to explain.

“Another friend,” Will breathes out. “Really?”  
  


“I’ll admit, I’m not a great shot,” Hannibal says. “Not my chosen fight. I hid behind the door. You did great, though.”

“You could have told me,” Will says, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.

“You act better on instinct. I trusted you.”

“I got _shot,_ ” Will says.

“I needed you to fight. Barney couldn’t do it alone,” Hannibal says. He pulls Will to sit on the toilet.

“Who the fuck is Barney?”

“Him.” Hannibal points at the man at the entrance of the washroom. 

“Yeah, _w_ _ho the fuck is he?_ ”

"I'll tell you later."

"Well, _how_ then?"

“A favour owed.”

Will shakes his head in disbelief. “Are more coming?”

Hannibal looks at Barney over his shoulder.

Barney slips his mobile out of his pocket and leans against the doorframe casually as it rings. Will watches in fascination. His face looks kind, innocent, but it hardens in the next moment.

“False alarm. Just some kids while Dr. Du Maurier was sleeping. I’m sending the crew back.” A moment's pause. “Gotcha,” then he hangs up.

“Would you mind grabbing Dr. Du Maurier for us, Barney? Tell her my medical bag is by the front door if she wouldn’t mind bringing it up.”

“How many fucking…” Will trails off, overtaken by a moment's dizziness. He feels the amount of blood that’s been displaced from his body viscerally.

“Don’t worry, he’s altogether sane.” Hannibal kneels in front of Will, still pressing firmly on his wound with both hands and holding the arm slightly raised.

Will bends until their foreheads meet. He wants to crawl into Hannibal’s chest and find some comfort that things will be okay. That even as everything else falls apart, there’s still tenderness between. He’s long past the need for forgiveness.

“My beloved,” Hannibal whispers and Will crones into it.

“I hate you,” Will replies.

“Everything I do, I do with the wish that it's what’s best for you.”

“The one thing you think is ‘best’ for me is you.”

“Well, I am.” 

Will lifts his eyes to see the smug smile on Hannibal’s face. At least he’s aware of the absurdity of it all.

“Even if you weren’t, you’d say you were.’

“I can’t exactly let you go at this point, can I?”

“Is it better to accept it or find self-awareness?”

“Do you think you have Stockholm Syndrome?” Hannibal asks.

“If I do, I got it years ago.” He twitches at a rolling wave of pain emanating off his arm.

“I’m sorry about Molly and Walter,” Hannibal says.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

“I’m _haunted._ ”

“They can’t touch you anymore, they drifted out of sight.”

Will shakes his head. “I’m in the stream too.”

“No, Will. I have you.”

Hannibal straightens him up and Will becomes aware of Bedelia next to them, for how long she’s not sure, and she’s shaking almost imperceptibly. Her face is ashen. Will wonders if he should move so she can have access to the toilet. He may not have looked at the massacre outside of the room, but he can smell the blood, can remember the mass of footsteps and shots, some of which must have been Barney coming up the rear to kill his own crew. How else could they have gotten out alive? What on earth gave them this advantage? Is he really safe?

“You can assist,” Hannibal says to Bedelia before turning back to Will.

“The bullet went through, but not exactly in a clean manner. Would you like to be put under?”

Will jerks his head back and forth quickly. “No, no… please don’t…” 

He’s expecting to fade into blackness anyway and gears himself to fight it but a hand goes on his cheek instead.

“I’ll keep you awake. Tell me if you change your mind. You’re safe.”

Hannibal picks him up and soon enough he’s on Bedelia’s bed. He cranes his neck to see corpses on the floor. One by one, Barney drags them out the door and closes them in the hallway. Will studies his frown with confusion. He pauses by each body and seems to be mouthing something. Eventually only a puddle of blood exists in Bedelia’s cream carpet.

“Apologies, Bedelia. These stains will be difficult to remove.” 

Will is only vaguely aware after he’s given pain medication. He tries to follow Hannibal’s and Bedelia’s conversation but it may as well be a different language altogether. He watches Barney pace back and forth, like a pendulum. He tries to count, to get a gauge of time, but it feels like an eternity before it’s over and he’s lifted in Hannibal’s arms yet again. He leans his head against Hannibal’s shoulder and nuzzles closer.

He’s aware of Molly’s presence, but he doesn’t feel like he needs it. Pulled to Hannibal’s chest in the back of a vehicle, he feels coddled. If he were more alive it might feel degrading or undignified but for now, he can hide behind the guise of his injury and subsequent shock, he can pretend to sleep as the passing street lights flash in front of his eyelids. For a short period of time, he can believe Hannibal when he says they’re safe. He can believe the fairytale. 

It isn’t his decision to drink water or gulp down small bits of food he doesn’t even taste. It isn’t up to him to use his legs, he is merely placed in bed, the covers drawn up over him. He doesn’t need to use his arms to clean himself when Hannibal does it for him, a gentle, warm cloth against his head. Painkillers are given to him so his arm is little more than the phantom idea of pain. 

Perhaps he can pretend that nothing in this world is of his doing. Maybe it is just God pushing him through life toward all the destruction, and what else is Will to do but follow the instructions? He never had a choice to be who he wanted to be, or who he thought he wanted to be.

He wants it all to be down to fate. It's easier if it's fate.

Somewhere out there, in some other world, Will Graham is sitting with Molly, covered in scars, spending all his time fishing. That person is probably an empty shell, filled with whiskey and memories, wishing he at least kept the letters. Something to remember Hannibal Lecter by when the memory palaces grew fuzzy and empty. When Hannibal would find someone else who walked into the hospital and intrigued him. Was that Will's happy ending?

Is his happy ending bleeding out in a strange bed in a hideout somewhere near Baltimore, only because Hannibal’s arms wrap behind him so nicely? Is his happy ending a myriad of ghosts following him day to day until he can finally get the strength to let them go? Garret Jacob Hobbs, Beverly, Abigail, he doesn’t see them much anymore. Life is getting away from him, and so will the drunk man and his wife and child, and Hannibal will be left. 

He tries to turn around and Hannibal helps him until Will can cling back. Hands travel down his hair, his back, his thighs, and raise again, running over every inch of skin. Beneath the blood and antiseptic, there’s that particular sweet smell of Hannibal that Will can bury into right at his throat. 

He might be insane, but he'd rather be here. From the moment he met Hannibal, from the moment he was born and it was preordained, from every time he tried to pretend he didn’t crave the fight, he should have known it would end up this way. 

He barely has the strength to offer sympathy for the world where he and Hannibal exist. For the wife and child who should have had a happier life, for all of the strangers who think the same of themselves. Will doesn’t care _enough._

The thoughts he’s having hit him with clarity and he finds himself in a brighter room, no, not a room, a boat. Stretched out on their deck. The sun doesn't hurt his eyes like he thought it would. He's no longer tired, and he's not alone.

“Hannibal. I—”

"Yes, Will?"

"Nevermind."

"All right."

Will feels the prick of something on his skin. “What are you doing?”

“I promise I will be back before you wake,” Hannibal whispers.

“What? No, no, Hannibal, _don't_ …” Will blinks and he’s back in the dark bedroom, watching Hannibal press a needle into his uninjured forearm. He doesn’t have the strength to fight it.

“I love you, Will.”

Will slides back into the memory palace, sitting on the hard deck. He scrambles to his feet and spins in a circle, looking all around him, but this time he’s all alone. 


	13. Virginia, USA

He reaches out for Hannibal when he barely even has a grasp on consciousness and touches thin air.

His eyelids feel glued together and his body like it weighs a million pounds, falling below the surface each time he nearly wakes. The room is unfamiliar but it isn’t a great source of fear. He hears Hannibal’s promise repeating in his head and doesn’t know what he’ll do if Hannibal broke it.

The memory of his dream lingers and he fights against its call, trying to stay above the surface. It wasn’t the kind of dream to wake him in terror. Ghosts were there, of course, surrounding him, talking all at once, but they didn’t hurt him. Even in his dreams, he’s the one to be feared. Hurt, accusing eyes piercing him.

Arms that he didn’t realize were there tighten around him. It takes a moment to realize what position they’re in. Will laying back against Hannibal’s chest and knees bracketing his own. He’s only wearing underwear, but a blanket is pulled up to his chin and tucked under his shoulders.

He turns to the window and it’s unsettlingly bright. He can’t gauge what time it might be.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal whispers in his ear. “Your injury is healing as expected.”

“Did you expect it to heal good or bad?” Will croaks. His throat is on fire. It takes only a moment for the feeling of cool glass to press against his lips. Without opening his eyes, he gulps back the water and gasps in relief.

“Will. I stitched you up myself.” 

Will chuckles at Hannibal’s confidence and it quickly transforms into a cough, shaking both of their bodies. The movement triggers various aches across his body. It takes a few deep breaths to feel anywhere close to okay again.

Hannibal sets down the glass of water and holds him steady. It feels like his arms are Hannibal’s arms, his legs Hannibal’s legs, his head only an extension as if they’re some two-faced monster. He sinks back into it.

"You drugged me."

"I did."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Well, I did."

Will glares at the wall in front of them. There seems to only be a bed in the room, everything else is empty and grey. Frustratingly, he doesn't know how to fight Hannibal from that point.

“Where’d you go?” he asks weakly.

“I had to follow through with my favour to Barney.”

“Which was?”

“It’s a complicated story. Would you like food first? A shower?”

“Just tell me, Hannibal. Don’t be leaving me in the dark here, you’re not supposed to do that anymore.”

Hannibal sighs but presses his cheek against the side of Will’s head to start talking.

“Well for context, I first met Barney in the hospital.”

“Attracts the psychopaths, I guess.”

“Barney isn’t a psychopath.”

“Okay, he isn’t psychopath," Will says skeptically, though he's suddenly remembering the look on Barney's face as he dragged corpses out of Bedelia's room. "Go on.”

“He was the Head Orderly for the maximum security section. Of course, I was a step above that. I only saw him when Denise was on vacation, but those few weeks were telling. He always treated me with courtesy and decency, and he was professional and competent, never made a mistake. An intelligent man. Could have gone to medical school I reckon, if he didn’t have a prior. Nonetheless, the prime example of how an Orderly should act.”

“The man I met last night did not exude professionalism or competency, and definitely not courtesy or decency.”

“Perhaps not to the security team, no. I would argue he was rather competent, though...”

“Get to the point.”

  
  
“He fell in love with an inmate. Deeply, madly in love.” Hannibal's voice is gravelly and Will reckons he's playing it up for the storytelling. 

“Christ.” Will rolls his eyes.

“Travis Hall. Set fire to a church.”

“Bet you loved that.”

“He was a young, passionate arsonist. It is said that immediately after his elementary school’s fire safety lesson, he stole matches from his nana’s cupboard and tried to set the dog on fire, only to get a nasty burn that you can still see on his wrist. His family got rid of any matches or lighters but Travis was creative. He stuck napkins into the toaster and carried the burning paper in a bowl, nursing it and burning his fingertips on the porcelain until he reached his destination of intent. He soon found that liquor excites the flame, and was eventually tall enough to turn on their gas stove. He learned how to start fires from batteries, learned how to start fires from reflection. His body is more burns than skin, they say.”

Hannibal’s arms tighten around Will.

“ _We love, we fall into the jaws of the fire. We can’t escape it_ ,” Hannibal says.

“What did you do, Hannibal?” 

“I broke him out of the hospital,” Hannibal says, casually.

Will knew it was what he was going to say, but he winces anyway.

“Your ego raises every time you escape something alive, doesn’t it? You won’t see the danger one day, _that’s_ what’s going to kill you,” Will seethes.

“Maybe we’re preordained to thrive.”

Will shakes his head in big strokes. “No, God, shut up.”

"God will do and say what he wants. Or are you talking to me?"

" _Stop_ _._ How’d you even do it without getting shot?

“I was grazed, actually. We match.” Hannibal holds up his arm where a bandage lays.

“I could break your nose, too, if you’d like.”

“I came prepared and with a plan and resources, believe it or not. And a close familiarity with the staff, don't you forget. I came from the outside in my disguise, Barney from the inside out. While backup came, we opened the cages.”

Will’s breath catches in his throat.

“Law enforcement arrived with instructions to shoot to kill, but you can’t underestimate the fervour that insanity and desperation create. Think about the seconds saved by people who don’t hesitate. The building went up in flames. It was magnificent.”

Will’s eyes twitched as he tried to imagine it, a strange stirring of excitement in his stomach.

“Barney killed nearly all of his staff.”

"It was Travis or the fires for him," Will mutters.

"Yes," Hannibal whispers, almost a hiss.

“Can an infatuation really justify something like that?”

Hannibal’s lips brush his ears when he talks. Will twitches when he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“It wasn't an infatuation. They met a couple of decades ago when Travis was committed, around the time Barney started.”

Will turns so he can see Hannibal’s face. 

“I don’t believe an infatuation describes what they have. I believe they could never move on from each other, that not being able to be together was torture. This is the succumbing of all independence for the one person who makes you feel alive. Imagine. Thousands of nights over the intercom, but talking in abstracts to avoid penalties under surveillance, only to hear each other's voices. A love they cannot escape.”

“So they had to escape.”

“Can you blame them? The only thing he did wrong was fall in love.”

“With the wrong person.”

“Or the right person, under the wrong circumstances. Good and terrible, love and horror, they exist side by side.”

Will sighs and rubs his hand over his face. “This makes things easier for us. Alana will be stressed. Law enforcement will be overworked, mass panic will spread elsewhere.”

Hannibal nods against him and Will can see the smug smile without looking.

“Where are we?”

“One of Barney’s hideaways. We’re not far from Wolftrap, actually.”

“We’re stuck in a house with an arsonist and his murderer lover?”

“They, in turn, are stuck in a house with _us._ ”

“Hah. And Bedelia?”

“I believe she got the short end of the stick especially. She is here, and cooking.”

Will sits up and turns around completely, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness. He holds onto Hannibal's shoulder.

“How long did you put me to fucking sleep for?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” Hannibal says.

“I don’t like surprises anymore,” Will says sharply, but he can't deny how much he's suddenly buzzing below the surface.

Hands rest on either side of his neck and Hannibal’s thumbs stroke Will’s nape, making it hard to keep glaring. He very seriously considers punching Hannibal in the nose. His anger rises and then fizzles as he sways a bit closer. Hannibal has a number of bruises that Will didn’t notice before, and the bags under his eyes give away his exhaustion. It all looks surprisingly soft when he’s wrapped up in a blanket here, the innocent _after_ of horrendous acts. Will’s tally of his own kill-list raises in his mind.

"So many people, Hannibal," he mutters.

"Inconsequential."

"You could have been caught."

"Then you'd break me out."

Will sways a bit closer until their foreheads touch.

"Or died."

"That could happen in numerous ways. I am always prepared because each moment in my life is as fulfilling as possible."

"And what does that leave me?"

"To learn to do the same. I am already with you, your fears about losing me are misplaced."

"I need to put you on a leash."

Hannibal shakes his head. "I'll follow you now."

"Yeah, you've said that enough and look, you're still impossible," Will snaps accusingly. Hannibal just chuckles with a toothy grin that's far too light. Even as Will tries to grasp onto any anger he can muster it's just not there. He's more distracted by the way Hannibal smells like gunpowder and his own sweat, a fragrance that Will finds he's starting to be obsessed with.

Will turns and leans against Hannibal again, higher up this time so he can press their cheeks together. He tangles their fingers together.

"I wish I came," Will whispers.

"Me too."

He pulls their entangled hands down to his lap _._ He wants to feel something nice for a change.

"I would break you out. I'd find a way," Will says.

"I know. You'd send your love letters." Hannibal pushes Will's boxers down.

"Mm."

Hannibal’s hands are a bit too teasing for his preference but he can enjoy them exploring still. Can enjoy the lips and teeth that wander around his neck, too. Arms that hold him up even as his body threatens to sag and collapse through the hard body behind him. His hips move of his own accord and he takes the time to watch Hannibal's hands around him, the veins on the back of his palm and the gentle flicks of his fingertips as he touches Will with intent.

He imagines himself sinking until he’s engulfed by Hannibal’s skin, squeezed between his bones and tied up in his veins, kept warm by the rushing blood and nourished by osmosis. 

“You did it all for me,” Will says, breathless.

“Everything.”

The outline of teeth fits on his neck in a familiar spot and Will is twitching before Hannibal even bites down. Skin breaking, blood spurting, bones cracking in a firework of pain that makes him moan loudly and tense up. He comes with fire in front of his eyes and legs kicking at loose sheets for support he doesn’t receive, but Hannibal catches him as he breathes out all the tension a moment later.

He’s vaguely aware of Hannibal hugging and breathing him in as Will comes back to life. 

“What time is it?” Will asks.

“Just about dinner time, beloved. Shower with me. We’re going to clean up tonight.”

-

Will looks in the mirror and knows he’d look dapper if he wasn't completely falling apart. The suit hides a great deal but dark bruises spread under his eyes and the one on his neck is an obnoxious shape. When he looks closer he can see the spots where Hannibal’s teeth just barely broke the skin. The scars he’s used to by now, bulging, jagged skin, and he doesn’t cover it with his hair, but the scabs overlaying are an especially bright contrast to his pale skin. Strangely enough, all the colours kind of complement the suit. He’s like a walking pinboard, or the _Wound Man_ after having removed each instrument.

Hannibal lets himself in the room, already donned in a red-accented plaid suit with his hair styled back. He puts a hand on Will's cheek and stares in admiration for a moment. Will doesn't register any embarrassment, he only stares back. The wrinkles next to Hannibal's eyes sink deep when he grins and Will thinks about the ways he's seen Hannibal change in only a few years. A few _long_ years. He tries to imagine them as seniors and finds he doesn't know where to place them in the world.

"Ready?"

Hannibal grabs his elbow and the existential crisis halts before it can truly begin. His last thought is to wonder if Hannibal was always quite so charming or if he's only just started to accept how effortlessly dazzling he is.

He takes stock of the house as he ventures through for the first conscious time. There really isn’t much to see except for lawn chairs and boxes, but the dining room is decorated to Hannibal’s style. It’s like slipping into a new dimension through the doorway, familiar but not. Candles alone light the room and the table setting is almost too beautiful to take in.

The steaming roast catches Will's attention first, a massive slab of meat wrapped in leaves of all things. Then, he turns his eyes on Bedelia at the head of the table, eyes glazed and staring at what must be her leg. Will walks around her side just to get a glance at the empty space hanging down from her chair. 

She looks gorgeous. There’s something complementary about her and Hannibal's beauty, but it’s too normal-looking, almost bland. She was never _right_ , he thinks.

At least this time he can smell her panic, as much as she tries to hold it together. Finally, her reckoning.

He puts a hand down on the table and leans closer to berate her.

“Good evening, Bedelia.” He smiles cheerily, swaying slightly. 

Her eyes twitch toward him only once before there’s a sudden movement.

He jerks fast enough that the oyster fork only nicks his neck by the time he’s grabbed her wrist. He holds her there, staring into her eyes that are more focused than he had first realized. He squeezes and feels how delicate her bones are beneath the skin.

"Oh, good try!" Hannibal says from behind him.

Will carefully extracts the fork from Bedelia’s grip and then quickly sticks it into the side of her leg—the one that she has left.

She barely huffs out but her eyes widen comically big. Will reckons she’s on a whole host of painkillers that make this all seem like little more than a nightmare.

He leaves it there, sticking out of her thigh as he walks to his seat. If she wants a weapon so badly, she can pull it out of her skin herself. Hannibal stands at the head of the table looking at them with fascination. His lip twitches.

"Entertainment tends to come after dinner. We mustn't let the food spoil," Hannibal says. The roast steams beautifully in front of Will's eyes when he sits down.

"I thought the entertainment was dinner," Will mutters. "Including but not limited to killing guests."

"Not tonight."

Will wipes at the blood on his neck with a napkin. Another to the collection, he thinks. Bleed him out, let this new person replace him. 

“What lovely company,” Hannibal says, chuckling to himself. 

He leans over the table to carve the meat and Will admires the presentation. It’s impressive, even for Hannibal. 

“Welcome. This dinner is a particular delight for me. Two of the people that know and understand me best, who accept me for who I am. I am forever grateful. Perhaps I am sometimes a lot to deal with. But so are you two.” He smiles at each of them, back and forth.

A slab is placed delicately on Will's plate with a scattering of fruit. Hannibal gives Bedelia a small piece and Will nearly cringes himself at the idea. He wonders if Hannibal was going to feed Will to himself those many years ago. He better not think too hard about that.

Will gives him an exasperated gaze but can’t help but let a small smile shine through. 

“Of course, Bedelia, you are the guest of honour. The second last time that you will be.” 

“And what will be the last?” she asks.

“Well, I think I’ll eat your heart,” Hannibal says.

Will glares at him but remembers that he ate Molly’s heart. It is merely for symmetry, the mirror they put up to each other. He reckons he could say something profound about their hearts being the only ones left to love each other but he’s still not entirely past his bitterness for the lies and deceit.

Hannibal sits at the head of the table and straightens his back.

“Khalua pit-roasted leg, tropical fruits and sugar canes for some sweetness.”

Will snorts.

“Our own lūʻau, and we have many things to celebrate.” Hannibal lifts his glass in a toast. Will picks up his wine and looks to Bedelia who slowly, with trembling fingers, picks up her water. They each cheers the air, Bedelia considerably less enthusiastic than them.

“You look scrumptious, Bedelia,” Hannibal says.

“Mm. Your skin looks very nice, It’s my favourite part,” Will says. He sets down his wine and slowly picks up his utensils. He’s prepared to enjoy this.

He cuts apart a bite and sets it gently in his mouth. Instead of looking at her, he meets eyes with Hannibal as he chews. It truly is wonderfully juicy and tender. There isn't a trace of bitterness. Only sweetness on his tongue tonight.

“Delicious,” Will says.

Hannibal takes a bit himself and closes his eyes for a long moment. With an eventual smile, he opens them and watches Bedelia expectantly.

They both watch as she slowly cuts a bite of herself and slowly brings it to her lips. It looks like a struggle to surpass. Her chest heaves once or twice and Will can’t tell if she’s hyperventilating or gagging. The meat goes in her mouth though and she looks almost… intrigued. She chews slowly and pauses for an extended moment as though she can’t bear to swallow. One hand grips the table cloth and when her throat finally bobs with the effort to get it down, there are tears in her eyes. 

“You were always curious, weren’t you? You could have always asked for a bite,” Hannibal says. Will takes in that piece of information with annoyance. Bedelia didn’t even eat his meals.

“It is less the meat that I find repulsive than its source.”

“You know exactly what you put in your body,” Hannibal points out.

“By source I mean murder,” she says quietly.

“Not repulsed enough to do anything about it,” Will says.

“No, lest I end up on a plate too early. He could kill them so he didn't have to kill me.”

“Congratulations on your years of being unmarked, then,” he says.

“Thank you,” she breathes out, then puts her hands back on her lap and stares blankly forward, breathing heavily. It feels only right that she meets this end after getting away with so much. In the spot Will should have been, and with creamy skin completely devoid of scars before today. He wears his scars with pride and a strange satisfaction he doesn't want to think about too closely.

He doesn't want this night to be all about her, either. She's caused him enough aching nights lying awake and wondering. Nonetheless, if Will had lived in that world, with a living Abigail somewhere in Italy, he wouldn't be able to live _this_ world.

“So is your _accomplice_ not joining us? Are they long gone?” Will asks Hannibal.

“They're nearby. Barney and Travis had a fair excuse. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they had an aversion to the meal. That would be quite rude.” Hannibal smiles knowingly and Will snorts.

“Imagine that.”

“I will see past it as Barney is considerably polite. His lover, too. They deserve this time together.”

“Why haven’t they run? Are they still owing you?”  
  


“Another swap. Barney will provide us with the resources to arrive at Alana and Margot’s.”

“And what do they get from you?”

“Once we arrive inside the property, I will give them the location and code to a safe that provides all the information and resources they need to start a life somewhere else. I believe they are interested in Nicaragua, or perhaps Zimbabwe. Some fine choices without US extradition.”

Will can relate to the dream. It _could_ be them, once the people looking for them are erased.

“When will we go?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

“Tomorrow. It is only so long that the absence of many staff members becomes clear. Barney can only speak for them for so long before it’s suspicious.”

Will nods, suddenly particularly hungry. He chews on the tender meat with determination and feels Bedelia’s eyes on him still.

“So long pretending to be compassionate. Not even a shard of that mask remains. Or does it?” Bedelia asks.

“Can we not psychoanalyze at the dinner table?” Will asks.

“Not even a little bit?” Hannibal asks in jest.

Will shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

It crosses through his mind that it might _be_ their last night. Nothing is certain. His heart starts beating faster at the thought. But nonetheless, he knows they’re both incredible fighters, and more than that, he knows their old friends’ weaknesses. Alana and Jack are, despite everything, _good._ And that means they might hesitate.

He imagines seeing Jack’s disappointment. Will it turn to rage? Sadness? He can imagine Alana’s disdain well, but wonders if he can still reach that piece of curious sympathy down below, the part that wants to save him. He wonders if Margot has a touch of respect for him, something cordial enough to make her hesitate. He doesn’t imagine he’ll see anyone from the BHSC but he wonders if they’d have even a spark of sympathy, or if they’d just be confused and disgusted. Are they convinced he’s the killer he once was? Or do they see him as a victim? Can he play one? _Is_ he one, even in small ways?

It’s strange to think about the years he devoted all his time to saving people, doing the indisputably _good_ thing. There was undeniably a sense of power in it, but not necessarily the power he feels drawn to. It still felt like enough at times. He doesn’t think that tilt toward justice is entirely gone within him.

Unless of course, he’s only a mirror of Hannibal by now, the closest thing to a monster. It has crossed his mind many times before. It doesn’t mean his _real self_ isn’t buried below the maroon-coloured glasses, and he wonders what might happen if they’re removed. What might come to the surface tomorrow? Will it be grief or will it be peace?

“Don’t psychoanalyze yourself now. That’s our job,” Hannibal jokes. Will blinks back into reality. 

“Ha-ha.” His fork is hovering halfway to his mouth and he finally takes the bite. 

“Am I wrong in assuming Bedelia offered you psychiatric support in the past?”

Will looks at Bedelia.

“I did, for a time.”

“And what did you two discuss?” Hannibal has a look that says he already knows.

“You ever give your ego a rest?” Will asks. 

“Ha-ha,” Hannibal imitates.

Hannibal looks fond despite Will’s snark and reaches out for him. Will lets him take his hand. Slowly, he lets a smile peek through. He should stop being an asshole, it’s a special dinner.

“I had to deal with my _feelings_ about you and for once I didn’t go to you for that,” Will says. 

“You went to the only other person who would understand,” Hannibal says.

“Who had been in my position, as close as can be,” Will admits.

Hannibal tilts his head, but Bedelia speaks.

“If I had been in your position I’d be long gone. He’s not obsessed with _me._ ”

“I would argue that I merely love Will,” Hannibal says.

“Yeah, obsessively,” Bedelia says.

Will puts a tongue in his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much. Hannibal looks annoyed, Bedelia looks like she’s currently on another planet.

“You were still a lover who survived unscathed for a long while,” Will says.

“‘Lover’ is a little too much credit,” Bedelia says, sipping her water. He thinks she’s probably wishing for wine.

Will picks up his own wine to swirl, hoping she’s envious. “That’s not something you ever thought to mention,” Will says.

“Are you reconsidering eating my leg? Do you not have a righteous reason without your incessant jealousy?”

“I have reason enough despite it all,” he says, promptly cutting a bite.

“At least you are both just as obsessed with each other. If only the relationship would be happy at that point. I see you’ve both gotten tangled up in your dance of gifts and retributions. A storm does not last for long.”

He feels numb at the reminder of his ghosts but carries on.

“We know what we’re happy with,” Will says. He looks back at Hannibal. Hannibal's good mood _is_ unwavering today and Will can’t deny that he feeds off of seeing Hannibal happy. Feels it like his own emotion. 

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Hannibal says, beaming.

Will gulps, overcome with sudden emotion. It's something he'd usually try to hide. As though if he could stay still enough the ache in his heart would pass by. He sits and feels it instead, and makes himself go on.

“There’s a lot I should want to change. I think there’s probably a lot of worlds that ended up different… and a lot worse off. Dead, apart, locked up, barely missing our chances. And I feel like I’m living through hell but… I still want to be here. Even bleeding out, even falling apart.” 

His hand twitches with nerves and he forces himself to make eye contact with Hannibal.

He feels a stab of affection to turn and see the raw emotion on Hannibal’s face.

“In this world, I have you. And in this world, I will follow you into the stars, into the sea, into the flames,” Hannibal says, squeezing his hand.

“If you don’t follow me, you’ll probably kill me, Hannibal,” Will says.

“And if I follow you, you’ll probably kill me.”

Will smiles knowingly and the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze makes his eyes twitch. 

“If I am to have my last night alive, I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to witness _this_. May I be excused, Hannibal?” Bedelia’s glassy eyes blink tiredly. Hannibal is standing promptly, wrenched out of the moment he and Will were having. Will glares daggers at her.

“Of course. I’m so glad we could have you for dinner. You were also an exceptional guest, considering the circumstances.”

Hannibal walks around the table and scoops her up bridal style with some effort. Will wonders what damning things Bedelia is going to whisper in Hannibal’s ear, her last attempt of manipulation. It won’t work anyway.

He’s restless the next few minutes and all he can place it as is longing for Hannibal. His leg bounces incessantly and his arm aches distractingly. He wraps a hand around the bandage on his arm and squeezes. It’s almost worrying how desperately he needs Hannibal to be back in his line of sight. He pushes his chair out from under the table, considering going to find him. It’s crazy, _they’re_ crazy, but he reckons if they were ever separated for real his heart would shrivel up into a crisp. His desire for Hannibal tastes like blood in the back of his throat, hungry. The rest of his plate isn't enough.

It’s only when he hears footsteps that he feels like he can breathe again. His lungs expand with Hannibal’s face in front of him again. 

He comes closer, closer, and a smile grows on Will’s face. Hannibal looks determined. He walks completely around the table and right next to him. Will is about to stand when Hannibal scoops him up just like he did Bedelia. He knocks the chair back so it falls with a clatter and bangs up Will’s knee on the table ledge.

“Christ, fuck, seriously?” Will exclaims. He gets his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders for some grasp before he falls but Hannibal is already walking. He stares at the table over Hannibal’s shoulder, the beautiful meal abandoned without complaint from Hannibal.

"Yes, seriously," Hannibal says simply, voice straining.

Hannibal bounces him a few times to get a better grip on Will but doesn’t hesitate as he heads up the stairs, set and determined on their destination. Will can’t help but laugh, more out of joy than anything. He feels possessed by Hannibal, completely taken.

His stomach drops with how fast Hannibal drops him on the bed, and he doesn't have time to recover before Hannibal is on top of him.

Hands intertwine with his and press his arms down above his head, his chest feels crushed under the weight. Hannibal kisses him with abandon, licks and bites like he’s trying to burrow his way inside. 

Will’s broken nose pangs as they bump together, the gunshot wound experiences wave after wave of piercing pain, every cut over his body burns with friction, the bite on his neck is a sustaining tenderness, and his right shoulder creaks with movement, but most of all there’s an ache in his heart wanting more and more. He gets his uninjured arm out from under Hannibal’s weight only to pull him closer.

He yanks at Hannibal’s suit jacket ineffectively but not without a great deal of effort.

“Please, fuck, just...” he stammers. Hannibal pulls back with a jerk and strips down to nothing impressively fast. Will does the same, holding Hannibal’s eye contact without so much as a blink. The time it takes to pull his suit jacket over his bad shoulder is too much to wait for. Hannibal helps him finish up and throws the expensive clothes over his shoulder one by one. 

Will sits up and bites Hannibal’s jaw, half-ready to eat him alive. He uses his thighs to pull Hannibal closer.

Will feels blindly on the side table. He saw the lube earlier, placed conveniently among the glass of water and painkillers. He gets it open with one hand and promptly spills it on the sheets before Hannibal gives him more space. Chuckling, he finally gets a hold of Hannibal's wrist and pours some onto his hand without separating their lips. All Will knows is that eventually Hannibal is gearing up to push his fingers inside of him and Will is rolling them over and climbing on top and doing everything but eating his face.

“Will Graham,” Hannibal breathes out, pushing his fingers into Will. “You are everything.”

“Shut up.” Will gets an elbow around Hannibal’s neck and kisses him until they need to gasp for air, grinding desperately onto his fingers.

“More,” Will says.

“Bossy.”

“And you’re going to listen.”

“Yes, of course.” Hannibal smiles so wide that it's impossible to kiss him properly, not for lack of trying.

Will winces slightly at the burn of stretch inside of him. It’s not a feeling he thinks he could ever be completely used to but one more flash of pain in his body is the least of his worries. In fact, it’s kind of addicting, he has to admit that he _wants_ it, and he’s no longer denying himself things.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will demands, pulling off of his fingers. It’s enough to get Hannibal to lay back where Will needs him, to dribble lube over himself so that Will can line himself up. He only pauses for a moment to find Hannibal’s eyes before pushing down with clenched teeth. He digs his nails into Hannibal’s shoulders and then bottoms out on Hannibal's dick in a painful stretch. He feels completely filled up.

Hannibal says something but it comes out incoherent. His eyes are slightly unfocused, twitching up and down like he doesn’t know where to look. Will laughs. This is what power is, he thinks.

“Everything I’ve ever wanted,” Hannibal finally says, breathlessly, like it's the ending of a great long monologue Will may never hear.

“Stop talking now, I’m serious,” Will says. It’s too much, even if it’s a good _much_ , it’s altogether way hard on his heart. Being so physically close is only the tip of the iceberg now that their emotions have lined up so perfectly. 

He moves slowly and the pleasure he feels is like a doorway open between them, everything mixing and blurring.

He grinds without shame or care, letting his body do what it needs. Hannibal’s hands hold his jaw firmly so they’re face to face even as they bounce up and down on the mattress. He gets lost in his eyes, in the depth of connection and feeling, and he can barely do anything but stare wide-eyed, wide-mouthed at what’s in front of him, panting.

He never imagined a love like this, could never even understand the comparatively less passionate love he saw around him or the melodrama of the media’s perception of love but here he is. Here he is wondering if anyone has felt this kind of co-dependent _need_ for another human, sunk so deep into his bones. He knows, logically, how unhealthy it is, he knows how it looks from the outside, every scar and every undeserved forgiveness. He feels it too, his entire resolution and the parts of him fading away until they’re lost completely. He wonders if Hannibal has captured those parts, just like Will has caught parts of him. Maybe it’s okay if they blend, if they become one unstoppable force, completely unlike who they ever were before. A new entity completely, a force to be reckoned with.

The burn of his legs and lungs is nothing compared to his need to move against Hannibal, even as time slows and stops and speeds up in front of his eyes, just trying to take each other in. The drag of Hannibal inside of him even makes every stutter of movement feel good.

He watches intently as tears fall past Hannibal’s eyes. He doesn’t even blink as they flow, only watches Will with amazement and focus. Will kisses up the salty liquid and feels his own eyes grow moist with the intensity of his feelings.

They’re forehead to forehead, nose to nose when they come, battling to keep their eyes open and Will feels the duality of their pleasure, knows Hannibal does too and moans obscenely. 

When he has to slow down from oversensitivity, he doesn’t pull out or apart, he stays wrapped around Hannibal as they fall backward on the pillows and curl up on top of the sheets. He lazily folds the blanket up over them and finds the rest of his warmth in Hannibal’s chest. He grunts with the movement it takes to get comfortable, sated to his bones.

“My beloved. I cannot think of a more beautiful experience than to feel so close to you,” Hannibal says.

Will nods against him fervently. There is nothing left, he’s faded. Hannibal softens inside him and gently slips out, but they stay clinging.

It scares him, but in a strange, distant way. Hannibal has isolated him from everyone else in his life, scarred him beyond repair, and transformed his entire mindset into darkness, and Will has stepped into it all with gratitude. Because really, Hannibal has no one and nothing else either. Will has accepted his fate and it feels unnecessary to panic when he’s fallen so far down. They are so tied up that nothing could break them apart. He smiles against Hannibal's sweaty collar.

“Will?” Hannibal mumbles. Will turns his head so they can look at each other.

“Mm?”

“We don’t need to go to Alana and Jack tomorrow. We could disappear now. Keep running, or find a spot they can never track down. A quiet life outside of society, even. Self-sustaining. Lay low together. Grow old together. If you wish,” Hannibal says. His voice is so quiet that Will almost cannot hear.

Will forces his heavy eyelids open so he can see Hannibal. He considers the proposition, imagines sharing a cabin in the woods somewhere, long nights tangled up and long days together, dogs running loose around the property, fresh fish for dinner and a stack of over-used books. He imagines growing old, seeing Hannibal's laugh lines sink deeper and his hair turning fully silver, finding peace, becoming a myth. 

Eventually, he shakes his head.

“What will happen tomorrow is necessary,” Will says. He punctuates it with a soft, lingering kiss, almost an apology, and then Hannibal pulls him close. 

“I will follow.”

Will blinks through the dark so he can keep staring into Hannibal's eyes and imagines the path he’s been given in this universe. The dizzying tail of his past life has almost caught up to him completely.

Hannibal clings onto him for the entire night.


	14. Virginia, USA

Will wakes with his nose brushing Hannibal’s and the peering eyes give him a start. 

He blinks away the tiredness until he can stretch out his creaking muscles. His joints pop and he accepts the sustaining soreness of his limbs with a groan and meets eyes with Hannibal again.

“There’s a particular feeling of freedom in knowing everything’s going to change,” Will mumbles. His voice is deep with sleep.

“We’re going to change.”

“You lied, though. There is no becoming. We just keep elevating.”

“Is there such a thing as the highest form?” Hannibal asks.

“I guess we’ll find out. Maybe by turning into dragons.” He moves closer until his nose is brushing Hannibal’s cheek.

“Quite tacky,” Hannibal says.

“Yeah, we can do better,” Will whispers.

Will kisses him. Slowly and tenderly until it’s not. Until it’s hard and biting and he’s rolling on top and wrapping his hands around Hannibal’s throat.

He lifts up so he can look down on Hannibal and press his weight forward. He presses in on his arteries and feels his windpipe with his hands, testing the amount he can squeeze. Hannibal lays there and takes it.

“You did it, huh? You made me a killer like you, what you wanted since you saw me shoot Hobbs. You made me kill innocent people and you made me kill my ex-wife and stepson. I never would have done it without you. I’ve eaten a lot of people by now, Hannibal, do you think about them passing through my body, giving me nutrients? Becoming just as much a part of me? I’ve caused a lot of pain and came out on top by fighting through. Are you proud?” His voice strains when he presses harder. “Is this what you always wanted?”

Hannibal’s face is turning red, and he puts a gentle hand on Will’s wrist.

“Am I your proudest invention? Most prized influence? Has it been fun to watch me go?” He smiles.

He tries to read Hannibal by his eyes alone, straining and twitching.

“I’m your only equal, the only one who can truly ruin you. You try to manipulate and push me but in the end, you follow me and what I say goes. I’m the only thing you care about.”

Will stares at Hannibal until his eyes start to flutter shut and then Will finally lays off. Hannibal gasps in with a wheeze and Will lays on top of him to feel the rise and fall of his chest. The sense of power reverberates through him.

Hannibal catches his breath and then quickly pulls Will into a bruising kiss. They move against each other until they make a mess of the sheets and themselves. For once, Will feels like he’s just about close enough.

“It never could have happened,” Hannibal says between kisses. “If you didn’t need me just as much as I need you.”

Will nods against him. 

“And you always did. It was always going to be like this. We are one and the same.”

“Yes,” Will breathes.

“I can think of nothing better than to follow you.”

“ _Good_ ,” Will says, before quieting Hannibal himself.

-

They eventually roll out of bed and into the shower and wash each other's hair dutifully. Will thinks it’s nice to provide pleasure and pain at his own discretion, running his hands through Hannibal’s hair and guiding him under the warm stream. 

Outside the window, he can see the grey-tinting of ominous clouds and the glistening of the first sticking snowfall. The roads are slippery with brown slush and the rooftops settled with perfectly crisp sheets of white.

He slips on dress pants and a blue button-up and when he turns to find a jacket, Hannibal is holding a clear, plastic suit instead.

Will takes it by the hanger and looks it up and down with a sigh.

“All that time wondering why the Chesapeake Ripper never left a shred of evidence and it was a fucking tailored murder suit.”

“It’s practical.”

“Uh-huh. Am _I_ collecting ingredients today?”

“Yes. If you are agreeable to it.”

“I am. I heartily agree.”

“I will administer a steady flow of painkillers to keep her awake but in reduced agony while you work.”

Will gulps but nods. He wastes a few long minutes standing and staring in the mirror, donned in Hannibal’s suit. Scarred and bruised but wide-eyed and awake, ready. He looks how he feels, like a serial killer. 

He’s a monster, isn’t he? In all the vulgarity of the word, he is it. He tries to figure out if what he feels in his stomach is more sickness or excitement.

He finally heads to the kitchen. Hannibal is cleaning up the dishes from last night, and Bedelia is slouched in a chair. Her dress is lovely but she’s looking particularly less lively, with sunken pale skin and distracted eyes. She doesn’t look at Will. 

Two men sit at the barstools. Will recognizes Barney quickly. They’re watching Hannibal warily and picking at half-eaten eggs. 

They both smile cordially at Will. Maybe _too_ cordially. They try not to stare at the plastic suit he’s donned.

He can sense the fear, which feels rather flattering in context. Will smiles but doesn’t make the effort to appear any less deranged when he does so.

He doesn’t avert his eyes, either. He observes them directly for a few moments, leaning against the wall in the corner. Barney has a kind face when he isn’t covered in blood. He’s a large man with chopped hair and wide-set eyes. Travis is, as described, covered in healed burn scars. His dark skin is disfigured into patches that are lighter than the bits of unclaimed skin he has left. He doesn’t appear to have any hair, and he’s rather thin and intimidating looking but doesn’t appear to be as such while he clings onto Barney’s hand like an anchor. 

Will finds that he’s strangely happy for them. 

He wonders what their relationship is like. If they know each other better than anyone else. He wonders if Barney ever fears for his life, questions his own limits through his idea of his lover. He wonders if they’re much more similar than what meets the eye, whether they start to blur.

Slowly, Will gathers up the candles left on the dining table and puts them away. He lingers in the corner, looking warily between their guests and Hannibal.

The air is filled with Hannibal’s voice passionately discussing the paintings of Johannes Vermeer. Will thinks he may as well be lecturing to the fridge but then Barney asks a few questions and appears to be rapt.

Eventually, Barney stands to do the dishes. Will watches the way his shoulders tense each time Hannibal walks closer. Travis watches him with clear apprehension. Will begins to suspect that Hannibal is moving closer and closer but feigning nonchalance on purpose to set them on edge. When Hannibal finally quiets, Barney turns to face him.

“Thank you, Doctor Lecter. Breakfast was delicious. Very kind of you. It was very interesting listening to you speak,” Barney says. It sounds genuine enough to Will, though a bit stilted.

“Of course, Barney.”

“I’ll be ready to leave at 5 pm. I had confirmation that Jack is staying at Alana and Margot’s under their security.”

“You don’t want to stay for brunch?” Hannibal asks, catching Barney with eye contact. Barney fumbles internally, Will can see it. Terrified of making the wrong move. 

“Just go,” Will says. Barney looks at him and Will waves to enunciate his point. He can feel the relief as the two men leave the room, linking hands again.

“What a terror you are,” Will says to Hannibal.

“I’ve only ever been kind to Barney, but his greatest strength is his vigilance. He will never falter his barriers in my presence and never linger too long if he can help it. Good instincts, that one.”

“You have a soft spot for them,” Will says, bumping his hip against Hannibal’s.

“I merely appreciate his attitude.”

“Mhm.”

“We shouldn’t put off Bedelia’s fate much longer. She is suffering psychologically.”

Will nods and waits for guidance.

They lay her on the coffee table, protected by sheets, and Will pulls on some gloves. She’s already hooked up to an IV but her face isn’t particularly serene.

Hannibal kneels next to her and strokes her cheek. She struggles to focus on him.

“You won’t feel a thing. It’s almost over. Thank you for everything, Bedelia. You were a dear companion and you will not go unappreciated.” He holds her hand.

Will thinks he sees the slightest of a smile on her face. It might be a grimace. Hannibal passes him a scalpel and Will pushes aside her clothing and presses it against her smooth, creamy skin, just above her heart. The line of red follows inches behind the slice of the scalpel, smooth and even. 

The spreading of her breastbone is less graceful. It is a rather terrifying bend, feeling ready to snap at any moment under Will’s inexperienced hands. 

Her expression is blank and motionless. He wonders where she is. Surely not here.

He stops and stares at her heart, beating fast and fluttery. He doesn’t resist the urge to stick his hand in and hold it. Life pumps through it, though weakly. It’s almost _hot,_ and he squeezes, considers crushing it. The only reason he doesn’t is he wants Hannibal to be happy with the meat. He holds onto it for a while longer, feeling Hannibal watching him intently.

Then, he cuts arteries and veins and feels it die right in his hand. He wishes he could have done this with Molly. He hopes the thought doesn’t bring back her apparition. For once, Will feels such a strong sense of clarity, has trust in what he sees in front of his eyes, and he doesn’t want to succumb to his mind today of all days.

He sets the heart in a dish and looks at the empty cavity. 

Hannibal grills the heart with a herb vinaigrette. Simple, though a strange texture. Will isn’t a big fan of the meal. He feels a bit sick, in fact, but he eats what he can and finishes the salad served with it. Hannibal devours his portion and looks almost serene. Will reaches out and holds his hand tight.

-

They spend the day by the window in their armchairs pulled close together, talking and dreaming about their plans in a casualness that would suggest a trip to the mall instead. It doesn’t feel casual, it feels like a battle inside of Will’s chest. They reminisce on their early days and Hannibal has a lingering smile that tells Will he doesn't harbour quite the same ache for the pain of those years as Will does. Hannibal talks as though their story deserves to be commemorated in a thousand different forms of art.

Will keeps his ankle pressed against Hannibal's affectionately. His watch ticks away and the afternoon light begins to fade behind them.

After minimal preparation, they wait outside for Barney. Will feels like he should look away when Barney and Travis come together for a goodbye. The intimacy and desperation are palpable when they press their foreheads together. Their hands fumble like they don't quite know how to touch each other.

Barney spent a long morning in the past day at Alana and Margot’s discussing the breakout at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane, the meticulously deleted security footage, the need for all staff on-hand. It won’t be long before they notice how dwindled their private security staff really are, between the group that watched over Bedelia and the hospital workers with dual jobs, all dead.

Barney’s job should be simple. He will report back to Crawford on his team, pretend to check over the shift change for the night and steal the keys to cabinets that keep extra ammunition and weaponry. He will dispose of the guards at the immediate entrance, return to the vehicle, and leave with the safe's code while Will and Hannibal enter.

Barney holds Travis’ face and whispers hurriedly. Will hears him say _I’ll be back before dark, I will._

Hannibal climbs into the trunk of the tinted vehicle with a pep in his step, clad in a ridiculously bright plaid suit. Will hangs back, waiting. Barney slows when he sees Will, looking wary.

“You know what’s going to happen to all your coworkers, don’t you? What you’re participating in?” Will asks.

Barney nods.

“What, do you hate them?” Will asks, skeptically. He meanders a bit closer into Barney’s personal space. Travis stands a bit closer on instinct.

“I don’t hate them,” Barney says. Will waits for an uncomfortable amount of time but Barney doesn’t continue.

“You just don’t care about them, then?” Will smiles humorously.

Barney shifts on his feet. “I care about them some,” he says quietly.

“Is this a difficult decision, then?”

Barney looks at Travis. “Probably not as difficult as it should be.”

“That’s pretty selfish.”

He chuckles, the first time Will has seen him smile. He knows Will understands, probably. Will wonders what Hannibal told them.

“You know you should feel worse,” Will mutters. “What if you turn up and feel as bad as you should?”

Barney gulps. “I’ll think about him.”

“What if you can’t do it?”

“Then I tried my best.”

“I’m betting my life on you, and that isn’t very convincing.”

“C’mon man, I… I can do it.”

“Why? If you’re so scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Why?” Will steps a bit closer again. Barney looks at Travis over his shoulder.

He shrugs.

“You’re unsure?”

“No.”

“Then what are you sure of? That you can see the people you’re friends with die? And?”

“That I can do it for him.”

“Not just that.”

“It is. It’s enough.”

“No. It’s not just him. It’s what you _share_ together.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do because you know you should feel more guilty. It does scare you, but not for the right reasons.

He gulps and looks at his feet. 

“Well?” Will asks.

“I _want_ to do it. For him,” he says.

“There we go. Travis fascinated you for more than his dashing personality, didn’t he? You’ve been waiting for something like this since the moment you met him. Dreaming of it.”

He twitches on the spot but his face turns into an expression that’s more determined than anything.

“Today should be interesting, if anything," Will says.

Barney still looks a bit wide-eyed and unsettled.

“Remember _why_ and it will be easier to do what you’re meant for,” Will says. He pats his arm briefly.

Will looks back at Travis before he gets in the vehicle. He recognizes the look. Heavy-lidded, dazzled, all directed at Barney. He feels almost guilty for getting in the middle of their moment, seeing something so strangely innocent. He closes the door behind him and waits. Hannibal looks at him in fascination.

After a couple of long minutes, the SUV bumps over gravel and ice away from Travis and their short-lived home. 

Will watches the landscape turn urban, into places he never thought he’d see again. It doesn’t even really feel like returning home. Nowhere has ever felt like home, except for maybe their boat. 

As the pedestrians grow denser he timidly settles down next to Hannibal and pulls a sheet over them.

He’s restless in the blind. It makes him more aware of all he's feeling. It takes a great deal of effort to not scratch up the scabs on his body but none are as bad as the gun wound on his forearm. He slaps at it until Hannibal has to hold his wrist. He tries to focus on the aching of his nose and neck, an endless list of injuries to turn his attention to, it seems. Lest he forgets about his shoulder that seems particularly sore this evening, magnified every time he rolls it. He’s quite literally falling apart but somehow it makes it feel like he can survive anything.

Hannibal kisses his palm and keeps Will’s hand pressed to his face for the rest of the car ride, even after the car slows to a stop. The front car door opens and slams shut again. Here they await their signal. Will wants to bury closer but he thinks if he does, he won’t be able to climb out of the vehicle in the end. He meets eyes with Hannibal and even that feels like a mistake. His heart flutters of its own accord.

“Past the point of no return,” Will mutters.

“Yes. We have stepped over the barrier into our new future.”

“I assume you’re not interested in forming a better plan now?”

“Not particularly. A bit of chaos makes it fun.”

“Yeah. Fun.”

Hannibal kisses him. “This that I have waited for for so long. You as well.”

“With dread.”

“Control and circumstance. How much do you hold?”

Will hesitates for only a moment. “Very little. But I’ll take it.”  
  


“It comes down to only a few seconds, doesn’t it? Time weighs heavy, the way we move within it. And it’s not real, is it? Vibrating atoms and the way our brains perceive it. And only the way our brains perceive it in relation to those around us. We have a choice and it may come down to any number of factors, but you’re right, it will not be _control_ and that is for the best. Natural instincts will perceive our surroundings best of all and can exist with perfect clarity external to the doubts and confusions of the conscious mind. What you do at the moment will be nothing in your control, it will be what you _need_ to do.”

The silence outside of their voices is most unnerving. So still without the vehicle moving.

“Time used to scare me most of all,” Will says. “Losing it. Chasing it. I still get anxious looking at the clock. Every moment apart… it made me _sick_ in the end.”

“It feels like there’s a timer on bringing it back together, doesn’t it? The equation to turn back time.”

Will doesn’t say he thinks it’s impossible. He knows it comforts Hannibal and lets him have his dream. He shifts until he can lay his head on Hannibal’s chest and wait.

And wait. And wait. Time drags on below the stifling cover. They take turns holding up a corner for some air and shift their skin when it gets too sweaty. 

More minutes pass and Will can tell it’s been too long. Barely any light comes through the window. He starts to fidget even more.

“Something’s wrong,” Will says.

“You may be right.”

“I am. If he hasn’t rat us out yet, he will.”

“Perhaps if they know how to threaten him. But Barney doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Don’t underestimate them.” Slowly, Will slips out of the blanket and fingers the gun strapped to his side. He peers out the windows immediately around them.

Hannibal watches him with interest.

“We need to go, okay? Stay here and hold on. Ready?” 

Hannibal nods.

Will lunges over the back seat, rolls, and lunges into the front seat. He hears a noise and a bullet pierces the front window, not quite breaking through but denting it and sending cracks of spidery lines from the centre. He slouches below the dashboard and fumbles with the key fob, turns, then, blindly, starts the engine and pulls the gear in reverse.

Bullets keep hitting the windshield and the front bender with the sound of crunching and scraping metal but the aim gets noticeably worse the farther Will drives away. He drives over the grass but fixes his curve and can see out the side window that they’re near to the main road again.

With a sly peek over the dash he can see security guards run out past the doors to stand on the road and aim at them. Will gauges their position, sinks back down below the dash, puts the car back into drive and slams on the gas.

His knuckles are white where he holds the steering wheel and he reckons his face might be, too, feeling the pull of acceleration, the bump of tire rims over pavement where the tires have been shot and deflated, the scrape of the dragging bumper and the steady slow of the leaking engine. The bulletproof windshield blows all the way through and falls on him in a shattered mess and then he jerks with the force of hitting _something._ A few things, heavy, that clatter up the bumper and scream in pain.

He scrambles his foot on the brake but it feels like only a second later that he hits an immovable object and it’s his body that flies forward and hits the steering wheel just as hard. 

His last thought is _Hannibal_ and his current thought that may or may not be a second, or minutes, or hours later is _I can’t see._

He really can’t see, as much as he tells his brain to blink, and feels it happen, he just sees _red_ and it stings, the tears must be flowing. He gets his wits about him enough to get a hand to his face and finds some kind of sticky liquid.

He wipes and wipes and dim light comes through but his first real movement hurts _everything._ His legs are jammed into a wall and he has no space. He fumbles his left hand until something pulls and clicks and then he falls sideways out the car door, rolling ungracefully onto the pavement.

Snow. Sweet, cool snow. Only a thin layer, but he presses his face into it anyway and lifts his head to look at the smeared red stain against the frost. He finds the stinging cut with his fingers, right at his hairline and pounding.

Moving his legs is a different, aching pain but he gets onto his hip anyway. His right knee is killing him and he drags himself along the ground, hip then arm, hip then arm, past twitching bodies until he’s at the back of the trunk. Still on the ground, he reaches the handle and throws the trunk door open. 

There’s movement and Hannibal slinks out onto the ground next to him. He’s moving like his back is hurt but Will reckons anything super serious would be instant paralyzation. Or so he tells himself. Hannibal collapses next to him and spits out blood.

Will’s eyes widen but Hannibal sits up. Despite himself, Will smiles.

“That’s one way to do it,” Hannibal mutters. 

Will knows backup is already on their way so he pulls himself up using the vehicle as leverage and gets his weight on his left leg. He holds out an arm but can barely support Hannibal’s weight. Eventually, they stand and sway into each other.

Hannibal pushes back his hair and looks at his cut worriedly. Will relishes in the warm hands on his head and then steps back.

“We gotta go,” Will says. He limps, wincing, and Hannibal comes up to his side to get under his arm and hurry them to the side of the house.

Will knicks a gun off of one of the bodies, whimpering when he leans down, and they hurry into the bushes. He leans over a step and hears rather than sees the front door open. Hannibal clings onto him but it feels affectionate rather than scared.

Will has only one working eye when more blood drips down from his wound but it's enough to trace the guards that file out and spread around the vehicle. He waits until they're all in his vision and fires once, twice, three times, a dozen times, his hand cramping with the effort to _presspresspresspress_ , aiming with barely half of his senses.

Hannibal pulls him back then and he stumbles with him, away from the guards that he hasn’t yet killed. He feels a bullet pass by his ear and gasps but they make it behind a different stone structure. 

“Any plan now?” Will asks, voice loud and almost desperate.

“Well,” Hannibal starts. Rocks tumble over their heads when a bullet hits the stone steps. Hannibal guides Will’s hands until the gun is aiming at the building and then presses Will’s own finger down.

The window smashes and Hannibal pulls off his jacket suit. Will can see red running down his arm, merely a graze but a bullet wound nonetheless. 

How much can they take, he wonders? How many bullets, how many cuts and bruises until their bodies just don’t work anymore?

“Three, two,” Hannibal says. Will looks at him in time to see a giddy smile and then Hannibal is lunging up, throwing his jacket on the windowsill and rolling over it. Will throws himself into a standing position then practically dives into the building. Shots follow him but thankfully miss. His leg feels like it's shattered within his skin but he doesn't want to look at it to check.

Hannibal catches him and they tumble to the floor. The guards are muffled by the walls and it’s a relief to find at least the semblance of peace for a moment. They’re in an empty hallway, empty but too open. There’s no stopping now, they’re inside the Verger estate, the exact institution that has it out for their heads.

Hannibal slides his suit jacket off the ledge, shakes off the crystals of window glass, then puts the jacket back on. 

“God, you’re really something,” Will mutters. He wipes at his head with his sleeve and can feel blood smear everywhere.

Hannibal grabs Will’s arm and pulls them just around the corner, the aura of hidden at least. He rips Will’s sleeve right off at the shoulder and wraps it around Will’s head, tight.

“We’re fucking crazy, what are we even _doing—_ ” 

Hannibal breaks him off with a kiss and Will lets it happen.

“You’re reaching your final form, that’s fucking what you’re doing.”

It’s not Hannibal’s voice. Will jerks his head to the side to see none other than the drunk man from Newfoundland.

“You never stopped transforming, and you never will. Go fly!” The drunk man raises his bottle in the air and smiles heartily before walking away with a merry stumble.

Will feels dizzy.

“My love, they’re coming.”

_That’s_ Hannibal’s voice. Will is tugged along the wall, limping and jerking his head around to get a sense of where they are, but Hannibal seems to know better than him.

They run into guards on the way and Will doesn’t feel at all prepared, he knows he’s losing blood from his head wound and almost definitely has a concussion and a shattered knee, but Hannibal is fast and brutal with a knife. His plaid suit is now a vibrant red all throughout. Will feels like he’s slipping and sliding on all the blood spilt, flooding the estate. 

They stumble through a bathroom that rivals a spa, and through a playroom lined with toys for a young child, and through to the quarters.

There’s no way they should make it to the centre of the Verger mistake, the large commons room looking out on the balcony, but they do. It shouldn’t be easy to shoot the guards standing imposingly in front but it is. It's as though Will isn’t doing it of his own accord, that he's only a killing machine. Blood pools in front of the large double doors, the last couple inches between them and their destination.

Will checks the ammunition in his gun. There’s only one left, which feels like a cosmic joke. He aims at the lock on the door.

Hannibal grabs him by the cheeks before he can shoot and Will turns, confused. Hannibal brings their foreheads together.

“Will Graham,” Hannibal says, his voice excruciatingly sentimental. “You are better than anything I could have dreamed up. You’re nothing less than a fallen angel placed here for me. I would destroy my world, I would follow you anywhere. Nothing could bring me more joy.”

Will stares at him wide-eyed.

“We’re going to get out of this, Hannibal,” Will says, weakly.

He should say more. He should say it _all_ now _._

Hannibal just nods and strokes his cheek. Will lifts his arm again and shoots the lock.

Will takes in a deep breath, then pulls Hannibal up against his back. 

He lifts Hannibal’s hand until the knife is right under his jaw. Will presses until it’s just about to break the skin, and Hannibal wraps his other arm around his chest. He kisses the side of Will’s head and then kicks open the doors.

Will has his hands in the air but is still surprised when the bullets don’t come immediately. He doesn’t have to fake the fear on his face. He limps into the room, gently pushed by Hannibal.

“Stand down,” Jack Crawford yells.

The doors clatter shut behind them.

“Jack…” Another voice he could never forget.

Will meets eyes with Alana and sees the fury immediately, the wild determination. She wants Jack to shoot, he thinks. Nothing else could explain that tone of voice. She’s a bright red figure in the middle of the room flickering like a flame. 

It doesn’t quite make sense until it does. He sees Barney holding a gun under Margot’s chin just a few feet away from Alana. Will has to hold back a smile. Barney is looking at Hannibal with nothing other than desperation.

“Christ, Will,” Jack says, looking up and down at his injuries with furrowed eyebrows. Will reckons he’s more blue and red than he is his original skin tone.

“Hi, Jack,” he stammers. It’s surreal. Jack’s hair is white and his eyes sunken. Even Alana looks older, hardened. It feels like a lot longer has passed than has in reality.

There are two guards on either side of the room. One of them has their gun trained on Barney but looks unsure, while the other aims at Hannibal. His eyes shift between Jack and Hannibal rapidly.

“Good to see you all. Jack, Alana, Margot. Barney. Three,” Hannibal says. Jack’s eyebrow twitches the slightest bit in confusion but he readjusts his stance, not lowering his gun.

“This can end better for the both of you,” Jack says. His gun shifts slightly as Will and Hannibal sway on the spot, Will doesn’t know if he’s genuinely aiming or not.

“Can it?” Hannibal asks, tightening his arm around Will. Will can hear his smile.

“It can, we—”

“Barney!” Hannibal says, cutting Jack off. “In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never made a mistake. You know how to be careful. What happened?”

“They sent someone else to check out Doctor Du Maurier's place, Doctor Lecter,” Barney says.

“Ah. Your caution is no match for Alana’s diligence, is it? She knows me well. But you make do, smart thinking.”

Barney pauses and his face screws up. “I’m sorry, Margot. I liked being your friend.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” she says. It sounds sarcastic but she’s missing her familiar indifference. Tears make her eyes shine and her face is screwed up in pain, though Will doesn’t see any injuries yet.

“I mean it. I hope you’d understand if you knew.”

“Yeah, you’re fired, Barney.” 

Will has to laugh at the contrived nonchalance. He also sees that it hurts Barney the most, trying to alleviate his guilt and find a connection that Margot isn’t going to give up any time soon.

Alana looks impossibly angrier, as if she may start snarling any minute. Barney looks worried for a moment, and then Hannibal says, “Four,” and Barney shuffles with restless excitement.

“Hannibal!” Jack’s voice booms through the room, echoing. “And Will. I don’t know what state you’re in there, but listen up.” His voice is cracking, like a faltering earthquake.

Will offers the smallest of bitter smiles. He’s glad Hannibal’s holding him so tightly because he’s not so sure of his ability to stay standing.

“Phone calls, every night,” Jack says. Alana looks wary but hopeful when Will looks over. There’s always a touch of softness there, even below the red lips. 

“What?” Will mutters, furrowing his eyebrows.

Jack sighs impatiently. “Different cells, but you get to call each other on the phone. Supervised. Better than being dead, isn’t it? Better than just one of you being dead.”

Will can’t help it, he laughs. Loudly. It’s a classic Jack idea and for a moment his heart feels soft with the memories. The knife Hannibal was holding to his neck lowers. He tries to step to the side but Will holds him in place, where he can protect him with Jack’s lingering sympathy for Will’s life. 

Will leans back into the warmth of Hannibal, imagines it for a moment. Giving in, choosing life, sitting in their cells and twirling phone cords, discussing the drugs and the therapy they’ve been put on, walking into each other’s minds to touch. 

“Shoot them, Jack. He’s hopeless, look at him, he’s _gone_ ,” Alana says, her voice trembling.

“No,” Barney cuts in quickly. “No, I’ll shoot too, then.”

Will can feel the outline of Hannibal’s smile when he presses his face to his neck and leans back into it with an affectionate sigh. Strange how tenderness feels the best when it’s contrasted with so much pain.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Will. _Him?_ ” Jack says suddenly, not without judgement in his voice. He starts shaking his head. 

Hannibal _tsk’s_ in his ear. Will can imagine how rude he finds the implication in Jack’s voice.

“I reckon it’s none of your business,” Will spits, which he realizes makes it obvious enough. Maybe he wants them to know the extent of his and Hannibal’s relationship. He fidgets on the spot. 

“None of my business? I’ve been trying to track you guys all over the goddamn world so you don’t _eat_ half the population!”

“Did you believe it for a while, Jack?” Will asks. “That I was trying to do the right thing?”

Jack hesitates. “The young woman was persuasive.”

Rosalyn, _she really did it_. “How did you know it wasn’t true?” Will asks.

“If you killed Hannibal, you would have presented his body. That’s your MO, despite everything. I know it is.”

“Mm, very good, Jack,” Will says.

“I don’t want to kill you, Will.”

“No?”

“No. I want you locked up. I want you to get better. You got too close to Hannibal, that’s why this is happening.” Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Alana fidgeting on the spot and can imagine her disagreement.

Will’s not even sure that Hannibal’s listening, he kisses the back of his neck affectionately, hugs his arms tighter and pulls them flesh together. Will’s stomach flutters. He looks upon his old life and knows he made the right decision. And God, his entire body burns with love for Hannibal. There’s no other word he can know for how encapsulating it is.  
  
“And you think if you kill just Hannibal, you can get him out of my head, right?” Will asks.

“I'm offering you an alternative, _for now_ ,” Jack says, voice booming.

Slowly, Will widens his eyes and gulps back. “If I’m honest, I don’t really know what part of this is me and what part of it is Hannibal,” he says. Jack’s eyebrows raise in the slightest hint of pity. Maybe it’s guilt, hope, sorrow. 

Will revels in the view, and then drops the mask and smiles.

For once, he doesn’t have to hide. He smiles so wide that his face hurts and looks between the reactions in front of him. Barney is staring at them with wide, crazed eyes. Margot almost looks bored, but Will can see the shine of her eyes as she stares at the ceiling, not bothering to struggle anymore. Every once in a while she looks at Alana, but never at him.

Jack is devastated, seeing what’s become of Will, after every ounce of trust. Will wonders if he feels the blood on his own hands. If he got so deep into Will’s head that he feels responsible for every corpse they’ve followed around the world.

Alana is still a fire burning on the spot.

“Alana, you have a difference in opinion?” Will asks.

“You don’t deserve an ounce of pity. I know what you are now,” she spits. Her voice trembles slightly and Will sees her eyes widen slightly. In sadness, but not in sympathy.

“And what is that?”

Tears make her eyes shine. “I can’t give you a psychological profile, you’re as undefinable as I’ve ever seen, but I know _who_ you are. Can you even recognize the selfishness and egotism this takes, Will? You think you’re entitled to the whole world. Did it make you happy? Did it turn you on? Did you get the satisfaction of playing God that you always wanted? Did you make Hannibal love you the most? Was it worth it?”

Will grimaces.

“It had to be Molly and Walter that we found bobbing in the water, chest ripped apart and brains splattered? I don’t know how you ever convinced yourself that you cared about anyone but Hannibal.”

“I don’t know either,” Will says weakly.

“Hannibal’s a monster, and you... you _think_ this is who you are. You believe it so utterly. You’re _porous._ ” Alana’s voice sounds stronger now, steady.

“Maybe this _is_ where I’m meant to be.”

Will is distracted for a moment by the slight sound of Hannibal breathing in through his nose. Will can’t smell anything, but even if he could, he knows Hannibal would catch a scent faster than anyone else in the room. 

“Then where does that put me? Meant to be dead? Meant to lose my family? Is the world set out to let you win?” Alana asks. Tears fall past her eyes.

“You’re not meant to be dead any more than I am.” Will’s eyes twitch to the side and he sees a flash of light running up the side of a curtain in the corner.

“Well, I don’t think you two are meant to walk this world and destroy everything in your path. I won't believe that.”

Will scrambles for a moment to think of something to keep her talking. “Do you ever think we’re more alike than that?”

Fire. Definitely fire. Burning up not just one curtain, but all of them. He’s seen this kind of fire in action, any second now and it’s going to spread. He has a good guess of its source.

Alana smiles bitterly and it makes Will’s heart clench. “No. I don’t. You see the world through blood-tinted glasses. I want to protect my family. I want the trauma to be over so I can heal from it, not bathe in it. I never want to see you men ever again. You lost yourself completely, Will.”

“I guess I have to lay in my grave,” Will says weakly. 

Alana breathes in and then her eyes furrow. “Burning,” she mutters. 

Jack spins around and sees the growing flames. “Christ, what the hell? Jackson, go look for the fucking source of that!” He barks.

The man with the gun on Hannibal runs to the other side of the room.

“Seven,” Hannibal says.

“What are these numbers?” Jack demands, looking more impatient and agitated by the second. Alana looks around the room with wide-eyes. Will can _hear_ the flames now. He can see the smile on Barney’s face. Too happy for the guilty man he thought he’d seen earlier. Or perhaps that’s just what love does.

“There’s only one more number and then Barney will have what he wants. It isn’t in the cards for your _wife_ to die, Alana.”

Margot struggles against Barney’s arms. Alana looks back at her with a wistfulness so strong that Will feels it. He catches the look with a strange thrum of regret, only because she faltered. She’s letting herself be distracted.

Time. It only takes a few seconds for everything to change. There’s a danger that comes from a person who doesn’t hesitate. Will only manages to predict the next movement because he knows Hannibal so thoroughly, knows that he’ll slice through your gut at the exact moment that it hurts the most.

Will feels Hannibal’s arm move and he pushes back into Hannibal just enough to make him stumble. Hannibal was right, Will has no choice in the matter, only natural instinct from the very atoms of himself.

The knife that Hannibal throws slices into Alana’s shoulder, just inches away from her heart. She falls backward and Will sees the scene in front of him in his imagination rather than his eyes. Hannibal throws them both to the side, barely missing Jack’s shot. Barney is off of Margot in an instant and shooting Jack in the back, trying to save his last chance of receiving the passcode to his life with Travis. Will looks back one last time to see Margot clutching Alana with crazed eyes, and hears a scream that might have come from either one of them, there’s no way to tell.

They run, injuries oozing and breaking beneath them and threatening collapse before they reach the nearest room and clamber inside. 

“Three! Safe fifty-two! Thank you, Barney!” Hannibal yells. Will yanks Hannibal in until he can slam the door shut.

Will is pushing a cabinet against the door before he can even think about it. The exertion makes him nearly pass out but he falls into Hannibal’s arms.

Barely a minute later Jack screams his name and the door handle twists from the outside. The shot wasn’t enough to stop him, clearly.

It’s a sitting room leading out to the balcony. He walks closer and stares out at the rolling fields. Freedom is possible. They could run out to the tree line where Will first walked upon Hannibal, they could steal a car and find somewhere to tend their injuries, let Chiyoh take them to a new home. Will presses a hand against the glass and sighs. He has no desire to run, and it doesn’t surprise him. He always knew this, even when he didn't acknowledge it. Jack’s shoulder slams against the door with a grunt and the dresser moves a couple of inches.

“You were never prepared for Alana to die. You were never prepared to completely destroy your past,” Hannibal observes.

“You knew it, and you thought putting me in a situation where I had to kill Molly and Walter would make me leave behind any good I had left,” Will replies.

“I thought it worked for a time.” The door bangs open more and more.

“Jack and Alana have been haunted by us and will always be haunted by us. I don’t need them dead. I want them to be around to remember me. It was always enough. It's _right._ "

“It is.”

“It is?”

“It’s enough.” Hannibal steps closer and presses their faces together. Will breathes him in and then almost immediately starts to cry. He scrunches up his face to try to stop but tears fall anyway and Hannibal kisses his cheeks.

“You could have stopped us from coming here for good. Forced me,” Will chokes out. There are three solid bangs from Jack slamming himself against the door. He’s weaker, but not weak enough; they only have a few more seconds.

Hannibal shakes his head. “You don't actually want that. I want you to take me with you. I said I would follow you.”

Another bang and Will sees Jack's arms snake around the door.

“I do. I do love you, Hannibal,” Will blurts out, speaking so fast his tongue gets tied up. “I have to believe that this is our best timeline, that everything we did had to happen, that we’re perfect in the end. I don’t know where I end and you begin anymore. I feel like I’ve been eaten alive. And I think it’s beautiful, still. It was always going to end like this."

Hannibal is beaming and it should look so utterly inappropriate for the moment but Will smiles back through the tears.

The door bangs open and Jack gets half of his body shoved past the entranceway. Will spins and gets Hannibal behind him again. Hannibal’s arms slide around his torso and his face dips down to press against the back of Will’s neck. Will feels his smiling lips turn into a bite and winces.

He keeps his eyes trained on Jack who, despite everything, seems to be waiting for something, staring down the barrel at them.

Will wraps his hands around Hannibal’s arms and leans back into him. He sighs. Jack needs closure before they go.

“Jack, you didn’t break me,” Will says. “The blueprint was always there.”

“Did you deceive me from the very start?”

“No, not from the start. I tried my best to fight it and be on your side.”

“And you failed. You always wanted to be a killer? At every scene?”

“It _terrified_ me.”

“Why’d you go?”

“I fell in love with it,” Will says.

“That’s a really shitty excuse, Will.”

“I know, Jack. If it helps at all, I'm happy.”

"How?"

"I don't know."

“Did you save Alana back there?” Jack asks.

“No, I really didn’t.”

Jack’s eyebrows screw up in pain. Will can see where the blood is spreading just below his ribs. There isn’t much time left.

“Do it, Jack. You need to,” Will says finally.

Jack’s lip trembles but he aims, closing one eye. Hannibal squeezes Will close. Jack looks back and forth between Will and Hannibal, then finally pulls the trigger.

Time. There are years in a second if you can perceive it as such, Will thinks. Nothing to run from, nothing to chase, it’s there and it’s enough.

He feels the bullet but doesn’t hear anything. It presses against his skin first, presses until it burns and breaks, then travels through the space between his ribs. It pierces his lungs and stabs through his heart. It breaks out the other side and he feels it go straight through Hannibal. Through his skin, through the space between his ribs, through his lungs and into his heart.

They fall backward, Hannibal’s arms tight around him still. He braces himself for impact but they surpass the hardness of the floor and they’re free-falling. His stomach drops, It doesn’t stop as they flip backwards until Will can raise his head and see red below him. 

They flip again in what feels like slow motion and crash through water feet first, sinking what feels like miles below the surface. He clutches the arms around his chest, hanging on for all dear life so he doesn’t let go.

He opens his eyes and they burn against the salt. Bubbles clear out and he sees the surface above, tinted red and bright like the sun is shining immediately over the world, a fire so bright it consumes it all. 

He twists, keeping an iron grip on Hannibal’s arm to not lose him. He turns and meets his eyes, maroon in the reflection and swimming against his. Their noses bump together when Will’s lungs start truly burning. He looks up at the same time Hannibal does.

Shade from the glowing mass drifts over them in the unmistakable shape of a boat. They both kick, shifting their grips to their hands and swimming upward with pumping limbs. Blood from their wounds flows below them, suspended in the water until they kick through it, desperate, headed for air, headed for the fire.

They emerge gasping and Will gets his arms wrapped around Hannibal, hanging on for dear life where the waves feel stronger. They bob and kick and breathe together and every touch feels visceral and _real_ even as the blood flows out of their chests, straight from the heart.

In another world, his friends are standing around his damaged corpse in a morgue and in that same world, he enters into their nightmares each night. In another he’s alone, and in another he's long-dead. In this world, he and Hannibal don’t have to deal with any of them.

Will coughs, wheezes, but gets out an, “I love you, holy _shit,_ Hannibal. I can't—I can't live without you.”

“I know, I know, beloved. We were always going to go higher.” Hannibal pulls him close.

When he lets up his grip, Will paddles toward the boat and watches Hannibal follow behind, staring at him with every ounce of hunger inside of him, the fire shining down on them.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i appreciate anyone who's gotten this far and would love any feedback 🖤  
> if anyone wants to share on tumblr you can do that [here!](https://will-gayham.tumblr.com/post/632737932023857152/e-817k-completed-contradictions-in-wills)


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